The Guild Chronicles Books 1-3

by J M Bannon

  "Excuse me, Mr. Strathmore, may I present Mr. De Morgan." Strathmore stood to shake hands with his guest. "Thank you, Evans. Have a waiter come back with a… what would you like to drink Mr. De Morgan?" asked Randal Strathmore.

  "A lager of some type would suit me," answered Augustus.

  "Please have a seat," guided Randal. The men sat in overstuffed chairs by the fire.

  "This fire takes the dampness out of your bones doesn't it?" said De Morgan smiling as he adjusted his position and unbuttoned his coat.

  “London is so wet and cold," confirmed Strathmore, for one who prefers the warmer climate of the southern parts of the continent.

  "When I received your invitation, I was perplexed as to what a managing partner at Chilton company, let alone the American one, would want with me. I have been all but adversarial to the Mechanists and the hold they have on the Empire. My suspicion forces me to ask why a partner in a firm creating so much wealth from the Guild would want to meet with me,” said De Morgan.

  "Well, this conversation won't become any less bizarre I assure you, but this has nothing to do with the Mechanists and any quarrel you have with them. I understand that you are a savant in the science of numbers," Strathmore suggested, leaning in.

  "It is true, I have written several treatises and worked with the great analytical minds of the Empire and abroad. While I would not propose to embody all knowledge in the field, I am part of an inner circle of many such enlightened acquaintances; growing our reach and understanding,” offered Augustus with a smirk while he played with his bushy sideburn.

  "I have conducted extensive research, and I found articles where you describe an analytical machine capable of complex and accurate calculations. I would like to discuss funding the development and implementation of this apparatus," offered Strathmore. He waited for a response from De Morgan but gone none, so he continued to lay out his position.

  "As you mentioned my partners are avid supporters of the Mechanist Guild affording early insight into many clandestine projects, yet no one in this cohort knows of any such machine. If one were to acknowledge the gossip in this city, they would be inclined to believe the Mechanists have made it a priority to ensure that no electromechanical logic machines are built, certainly, none that would challenge the trigonometric registers they provide to Her Majesty…"

  "A bloody shame, the monopolistic tripe, stifling ingenuity," interrupted De Morgan.

  "Well, I'd like you to know I am not affiliated with that thinking and would be very interested in introducing overseas investors to the developers. Capital typically speeds the pursuit of this type of enterprise. In fact, I have been asked by a client who read your work to seek you out and explore if the machine you mention can be purchased or a likeness built for private use," said Strathmore.

  The old man squirmed in his seat. His mouth moved as if to start a sentence then he stopped.

  "Mr. De Morgan, I am aware this development can be expensive, but I assure you that if you can deliver the machine, my client has the means to make it worth yours and your partners’ time," Strathmore pressed.

  "Well, here is the thing Mr. Strathmore, I don't need your money, or I should say they don't need your money."

  "Really, is that so? I have never heard that as an excuse before. But that makes me believe the machine you talk about in your treatise exists or it will soon."

  "Those bloody Mechanists can vote us out of the ministries and halls of power, but eventually forward-thinking people eventually approach us, like you are now and want to fund progress."

  "So, the machine is in operation?" asked Strathmore.

  De Morgan's demeanor changed, the smug smile leaving his face, “Let’s say this if the machine were to exist, my hypothetical partners would not permit me to talk about it.”

  "Professor, I thought you were a man looking to spread the circle of knowledge, to advance all of mankind in pursuit of higher intelligence." Strathmore pushed.

  "Mr. Strathmore,” The waiter brought De Morgan his drink and set it on the table. De Morgan took the glass and gulped a mouthful of beer. "Sir, the parties that may have this hypothetical machine are not interested in partners and would frown upon my discussion with anyone of this business," Augustus whispered.

  "Mr. De Morgan, while you may have wealthy patrons for this project who demand a level of discretion, the party I represent has enormous wealth and influence, frankly the needs they have for this analytical machine would, in turn, require absolute judiciousness. However, you are an educator, one with an intention to spread knowledge and I expect you to appreciate the benefit having multiple patrons will do to strengthen your position," guided Randal.

  "Hypothetically speaking, those who own and operate the theoretical machine do not hold the far-reaching power of your Guild or have the money in your firm's safe; but I can assure you, they certainly don't give a tinker's damn about either of you and may be the most ruthless fellows in the City of London," DeMorgan warned as he sat back in his chair.

  "Mr. De Morgan I would be indebted to you if you were to provide me an introduction to this hypothetical party, then I can pursue if there is an interest in working with my Patron. All I ask is that you make them aware of our enthusiasm in advancing this technology."

  "I will pass on your message Mr. Strathmore, as I desire a continued cordial relationship and to have the opportunity to call on each other again. I have no interest in you feeling affronted by this, but I need to be clear, these folks like to keep to themselves and don't need your bloody money."

  * * *

  8:40 a.m The Streets of Harpsichord

  "Now you can just open up the door and let us talk. There is nothing to be a fearing,"

  "Fuck you, Leary! You and your crew are only here to do the bidding of the Astor Company. The three of us are deputies of Marshal Elmore Quentin and his orders are that no one was to enter this office until he got back."

  James Leary looked to his cronies, he knew a few of them but most he had not worked with before. Leary had done plenty of work in the area and wasn't afraid of trouble. When the Astor Company man came into the bar in Cheyenne looking for men at five dollars a day, he was one of the first to step forward. Right now, his job required removing these dip-shits out of the Sheriff's office. The Railroad Man and the Company Man wanted to question a witness they had held up in there. Rumor was that it was the Sioux tracker Hanska, a surly Indian who roamed around taking on odd jobs for the Army and others looking for a scout or trailblazer.

  "Now you fellas, don't really give a fuck about this Indian do ya? Listen, let's bring him out and have a conversation and whatever he says you can pass on to the Marshal if he ever gets here," Leary leaned up against the locked and bolted Sheriff's office door, casually lighting his cigar, a knowing grin on his face.

  "How about you go back to Ireland, you potato - eating pig fucker?"

  That aggravated Leary. "Now, don't be just saying things out of bravado, that you might regret later,"

  Leary turned to the men, "Go get McMillan off the train. The rest of you see if you can locate some whale oil or rock oil out of the dry goods store and bring it over here,"

  "We going to burn 'em out?" squealed one of them.

  "No, but we can give that appearance and see if they get sense to open the door," as he looked at the young trapper he noticed something on the horizon. He had never seen one in person before, but he had to assume it was an airship. His stare drew the attention of others,

  "Holy shit is that a blimp?"

  "Quiet," Leary yelled.

  Over the foothills, the thrum of the airship engines could be heard. Sure, enough it was an enormous airship, it maneuvered and changed from just a dot to a cigar or fish shape on the horizon below the clouds.

  "Go fetch McMillan and forget about the oil. Looks like we need to get ready for some visitors,"

  "The ship was growing in size, the tan metal airship was headed toward town as the engine sounds increased,"


  "That's right Leary, that's the Marshal. He told us he was coming back with some fancy types from out East and overseas." The voice of the Deputy behind the door sounded, more confident.

  Leary took the time to study the man hiding in the building with the smart mouth. He always had enough strength to carry one more grudge, especially a small one like putting some smart ass in line when he didn't have a wall and a lawman to hide behind.

  14

  Wednesday the 20th of March

  9:00 a.m. The Town of Harpsichord

  As Elmore and his party approached in the runabout, Elmore began counting heads of those on the ground. A few he recognized; a strange mix of trappers, mountain men and hired guns who made it their business to find work that justified killing other men.

  They all stood gawking at the small vessel descending from the Peregrine. The Marshal was excited for the opportunity to ride in it a second time, yet also nervous at the prospects of dealing with this mob. The small, sleek runabout differed significantly from the Peregrine. Where it was nearly silent the big ship loomed noisily, filling the sky with coal ash plumes.

  Elmore admired the small boat's ingenuity; wondering if the flotation gas was in the oversized brass rail on the edge of the gunwale or beneath the deck somewhere.

  He turned to the pilot, "Bring us down to the street about ten feet off the ground, stopping about twenty feet away. If they shoot, take us back up over roof level."

  "Just watch this piloting," said the crew member at the back of the craft working the tiller.

  "Excuse me, Gentleman, can you tell me what brings you to the town of Harpsichord, currently a crime scene and under quarantine," the Marshal addressed the gathering as the pilot hovered the runabout in the middle of the street.

  "That's a fancy ride," a fellow in a bowler hat spoke. He wore an expensive suit and waistcoat, carrying a double rig with nickel plated revolvers. He and fifteen other men surrounding him, all armed, giving Elmore their full attention.

  Elmore, held his Henry rifle draped in the crook of his right arm, his left hand in the lever action, the hammer was already cocked and ready to drop. "I could say the same," replied Elmore looking at the locomotive.

  "Oh, you can't compare a locomotive to an airship, let alone this flying rowboat," spat the man looking to his men for acknowledgment. "As a matter of introduction, my name is E. W. McMillan, I’m the head of security for the Chicago, Burlington and Quincey Rail Company out of Chicago, Illinois. Mr. Wilburn here is the new station manager for the Astor Trading Company. I’m expecting you to be the Marshal?” McMillan looked at Elmore for an answer.

  "That would be me. Marshal Quentin, duly appointed for the Federal Territory of Colorado. I suppose my Deputy informed you that we are investigating the deaths of these townsfolk and will keep things clean and tidy until we can assess what happened here."

  "He did. My men and I have offered to help you with this tragedy, not just with catching the culprit but also to get this town back up and running. Your Deputy here, Wally was it?"

  "Yes," said Wally through the window of the office.

  "Wally said you have an Indian that you caught in the town. You could see how this might be some kind of redskin revenge on the persons in the town and we wanted to discuss it with him," McMillan finished.

  "That's one possibility. I should advise you, Mr. McMillan, that some of your hires here, like Mr. Leary and Jake over there, may not have been forthcoming when you interviewed them and left out parts of their past. The things I know about and that many would consider a lack of good judgment and let's say rash behavior."

  "How about you come off your flying boat and we get rash," spouted Leary, who swung open his big wolf-skin coat showing off a pistol on his right side and a menacing hunting knife on his left.

  "Bring us down, please," ordered Elmore.

  The pilot lowered the craft and Elmore hopped off. Dolly stepped down, providing back up.

  McMillan took a step back placing his left foot behind his right narrowing up his body. Elmore noticed the subtle move, one that a professional gunfighter makes to reduce the target size in a shoot-out. Dolts like Leary stood bowlegged with both arms out, serving up more surface area for their opponent to hit. The entire group tensed up.

  "Now, Mr. Leary, I know you're a hard as granite, mountain man and are prepared to kill anyone, even a US Marshal," Elmore stated.

  "That's right Quentin, I don't give a fuck. I would rather see the hangman than take bullshit from a smart mouth like you," barked Leary.

  "Fair enough, now this here is Detective Frederick Adolphus Williamson and get this fellas, he goes by the name Dolly."

  There was a low chuckle from the mob.

  "Williamson is a Detective Inspector from Scotland Yard. He has traveled all the way from London, England to help me figure out what happened here. He even brought a team of doctors and experts in metaphysics to sort this all out," continued Elmore.

  Dolly tipped his hat, "Gentleman."

  "Now Detective, things here are a bit different, so let me clarify our situation. I will ask these gentlemen to disperse and get out of town. Now then things could escalate, guns being drawn then a lot of shooting; a whole new catastrophe in Harpsichord. So, if after I ask them nicely, and guns are drawn, I would like you to take out the colt revolver you carry and shoot Mr. Leary dead. Now don't fret about clearing your shoulder holster quick enough. Mr. Leary here is nowhere's near as fast a draw or as good a shot as Mr. McMillan. So, I need to kill Mr. McMillan first, and I will kill him. I am willing to bet I can do that and shoot a few more of these other fellas before you and James clear your pistols from your holsters,” said Quentin.

  Dolly nodded, "He won't be the first Mick I've killed and the way that lot procreates; likely to not be missed."

  Elmore smiled.

  "Fuck you, you limey prick." challenged Leary. He shifted to look at the English Detective, his eyes darting back and forth between the Marshal and his new most hated adversary.

  "Marshal, I would like to know if anything was taken from the scene of the crime. One of my agents was in charge of some equipment and we want to make sure that it wasn't stolen," injected Mr. Wilburn, "the security of company property is my primary concern," he finished as he looked at the wild Irish mountain man.

  Elmore took a few steps up. "You know, I found some strange stuff when we first came into town. That might be what you're talking about."

  "Can I see it," Wilburn now had enough courage to move to the front of his group.

  Elmore frowned and closed one eye. "Mr. Wilburn this town and that evidence is all part of the Federal Marshal Service investigation and we plan on sending it to a fancy lab in Europe to have it tested. You best go before Judge Arbuckle at the tenth district court in Denver City and discuss it with him."

  McMillan stretched out his arm to move Wilburn back, “Marshal, that is mighty industrious of you and proof they have the right man for the job but Mr. Wilburn and me; we have a duty to our employers to make sure that our property is protected and get the wheels of commerce turning again. Now I know that sounds greedy and short-sighted but what could be better for the folks in Harpsichord than getting back to work and compensated, with the help of Astor and the C, B, and Q. So, why don't we think about us all making sure that the Astor Company property is where it should be, in the hands of its owner."

  “What folks? Not sure who in town to compensate even the gravedigger is dead. Now why don't you tell me about this equipment you're missing? I am interested in what it might look like and what it may do?" asked Elmore. The air was thick with tension, Leary was fuming and looking to start a fight, McMillan calculating the situation and Wilburn was agitated when he learned the Marshal might have what he was hoping to recover.

  "Should I signal the ship to spray the gas?" yelled Rose for all to hear. She was standing with one foot on the bow of the runabout and her hands on her hips.

  Everyone looked at her including Elmor
e, giving her a confused look.

  Rose continued, “If we do not commence fumigation immediately Marshal, I suggest we take our leave of the area, there is no certainty whether a contagion is present, and possibly spreading. I personally would like to get clear of this until after we spray."

  Elmore took the cue from Rose. "Well, when I said I got in experts, I brought in a bunch; we need to ensure this isn't some filthy disease being spread by animals or people."

  "Jesus, Elmore you sayin' I could die just from being in this town? Three bits a day don't make it worth being a Deputy if I’m gonna die from some unknown disease," yelped Wally from inside the office.

  "Or to Mr. McMillan's point this could be Indian revenge some curse they put on the town, I mean, this is Sister Rose Caldwell from London England. If you are the type to read the papers, you may already know of her status as the world's preeminent expert in matters of the supernatural and arcane," said Dolly.

  "Oh, and I would suggest that you all vacate when we spray, as there could be side effects," warned Rose.

  "Side effects! What's going on here Marshal?" asked Wilburn.

  "Yes, the Doctor is aboard the ship preparing the fumigation, I am inclined to follow her lead and steer clear of this before I catch a fever," added Rose.

  General grumbling broke out amongst the Deputies and McMillan's men.

  "Well now Sister, you’ve thrown everyone here into a tizzy. I wish you wouldn't have done that," said Elmore, giving Rose a sly wink of the eye. "Mr. McMillan, could you do me a favor and get all your men back on that train and back it up say…" Elmore turned to Rose for an answer.

  "Five hundred meters should do it,"

  Elmore smiled addressing McMillan, "Ok, I learned today, that's about five hundred yards. Soon as you and your posse are onboard and you back up the locomotive we can get to cleaning up the ill winds blowing through here."

  McMillan's men broke away and had moved before he gave them an order.