The Providence Engine: A Steampunk Novella Series: Episode 1 (The Crimson Blade)

by Ed Zenith

  “Dilton, my boy, what would I do without you?”

  Marsh blushed and handed the glass to the Bishop. As he turned back to the cabinet, his eye caught something on the floor. From within the cupboard, Ash followed Marsh’s eye line and found he was staring straight at the few crumbs that had spilled from Ash’s lips just moments before. Marsh looked up and scanned the room with a furrowed brow.

  “Dilton, bring me the case, will you good fellow?” slurred a tired Cannings. Marsh did not answer him, but continued to look around the room with suspicion. Ash felt his pulse begin to race. Stealing oatcakes was one thing, but he had just witnessed Cannings confess to multiple murders. He was sure that he wouldn’t get away with just a slapped wrist.

  Marsh suddenly locked his eyes on the confectionery cupboard, as if he were a hunting dog who had sighted its prey. Slowly he stepped towards the cupboard, Ash watching him through the crack between the doors, his mind desperately racing with plans and how he could explain his way out of this.

  “Bring it to me, Marsh.”

  Marsh was almost at the cupboard and Ash squeezed his eyes shut, waiting to be yanked from his hiding place. Marsh raised his hand to the handle-

  “MARSH! BRING IT TO ME!” bellowed Cannings, shaking Marsh’s concentration. He turned swiftly and rushed to the case that lay on the desk. “What on earth is wrong with you, man?”

  “I apologise my Lord. I had the strangest suspicion that one of the inmates was here,” grovelled Marsh, delivering the collection of rags with great care.

  “Those scum? They wouldn’t dare.”

  “Oh, I can think of two that might, my Lord.”

  Cannings’ face turned to a scowl. “Yes. Keynes and Drew.” He spat the names. “Strange how every man in this godforsaken hole fears me, yet those two carry on as they please. They have been a constant irritation to me, those boys. Not for much longer though…”

  “Quite my Lord. The nurse tells me that Drew’s condition has grown worse. He shall not last the week.”

  Marsh’s bland, matter-of-fact tone stung Ash like a freshly opened wound. Of course he knew that Drew was ill, but hearing it from Marsh seemed to make Drew’s death more inevitable, more true.

  “And as for that other boy,” leered Cannings, “I’ve plans for him.”

  The Bishop reached down to his lap and parted the rags. From it he produced a large dagger, curved like a crescent moon, glittering with jewels. The blade glowed red in the light of the fire and Cannings’ eyes sparkled evilly as he gazed upon it. Ash barely stifled a gasp as Cannings slowly turned it in his hand, the light reflecting off it and dazzling Ash inside the cupboard.

  “The Crimson Blade of Marrakech. Her Majesty will be most pleased to finally receive this.” Cannings sipped again at his laudanum and slumped a little lower in his chair. “Once it is reunited with its partner, the Queen will give me anything. Finally, I will be an Archbishop, with a palace, a cathedral and real power. No longer will I have to languish in this cesspit, dealing with criminals and orphans, the scum of society.”

  “What of Keynes, my Lord? Your plans?”

  “I am his legal guardian. Naturally I will want to take my beloved Ashton with me to my new palace,” The Bishop’s grin, if possible, grew wider. “Where I shall release years of pent-up frustration and thrash him to within an inch of his life. And then-” Cannings mimed a series of blows with the ornate dagger and collapsed in a fit of laughter. Marsh shared in the hilarity and carefully took the knife from him.

  Once he had calmed himself, Cannings took several more sips from his glass and patted Marsh on the back.

  “Dilton, take a telegram. To Her Majesty The Queen, saying I have the blade and am willing to exchange it for a promotion. Send with the upmost urgency, for her eyes only.” Marsh hastily scribbled down a note on his pad. “You’re a good boy, Dilton. Leave me now,” he slurred, now quite under the influence of the laudanum. Marsh covered the Bishop with a cloak and carefully took the knife away. He walked to the display case that Ash had seen earlier and standing just inches away from where Ash was hidden, Marsh placed the knife in the case where it fitted perfectly, leaving just once space above it, long and thin, perhaps for another treasure. Marsh turned and looking at his beloved Bishop once more, crept out of the room.

  In the cupboard, Ash waited until he saw that Cannings had dozed off and carefully eased open the door. His eyes were drawn to the knife in its case, the dying firelight flickering on the blade. He found himself bewitched by its beauty, but also fearful. There was something about this object that chilled him to the bone. It seemed to emanate malevolence. He dragged his eyes from it and stared at the prostrate Bishop as he tip-toed out of the room, where he found that the guard had been taken to the hospital wing, leaving just a streak of blood along the stone floor.

  *****

  As he walked briskly back to his dormitory, Ash replayed the conversation he had just overheard. Once Drew was dead and Cannings had wormed his way into becoming an Archbishop, Ash would then be tortured and killed. Perhaps it was just the laudanum talking, but Cannings had already confessed to killing five men, so what was the life of a puny little orphan like Ash to him?

  Ash made it back to the dorm, all the while rehearsing how to tell Drew in his head. He stepped over the bunks and sleeping bodies that lay in the dark and found Drew laying in his bed, on his side, quite still.

  “Drew!” Ash whispered, “Wake up!”

  Ash prodded his friend, but he did not wake. Growing impatient, Ash pulled Drew’s shoulder, which turned his whole body to face him.

  Ash saw the pale complexion and peaceful expression. His friend had gone. Before he could grieve or cry, he remembered Drew’s order from earlier that evening and had no choice but to honour it:

  “When I’m gone, you’re going to escape.”

  -4-

  Marrakech, North African Colonies, 1838.

  Lord Farleigh Hungerford strode purposefully through the heat of the African sun, on his way to what was one of the most important meetings of his life. Had he known that this particular meeting would cost him his life and set free a curse that had lain dormant for hundreds of years, he may not have been quite so keen to be punctual.

  Whilst he had lived in Marrakech for almost fourteen years and in the outlying regions of North Africa for much longer, Lord Hungerford made no allowances for the heat; he wore his white linen suit as though it were his old regimental uniform, with pride. His white skin had not picked up a tan in the entire time he had lived on the continent, but instead glowed an intense shade of red. Perspiration dripped on to his thick white moustache, which perched on his upper lip like an albino slug.

  Hungerford had been appointed Principal Minister of the North African Colonies since their creation twelve years previously, when Morocco, Algeria, Libya and Tunisia came to be ruled by England after a short but bloody war. The English Empire continued to grow and prosper. Peace was at long last announced between England and the International Celtic Alliance (comprising of Eire, Scotland, Wales, Cornwall and Brittany), but disagreements with France and Spain still waged.

  The King had died the previous year and Queen Victoria had ascended the throne. The official coronation would not take place until the summer of 1838 and all friendly nations would naturally send a gift, each seeking to out-do the other. Hungerford sought to trump them all and it was for this reason that he now paced through the market, towards his own death.

  He came upon the workshop that North Africa’s chief weapon maker chose for his home. It was little more than a cave, having no windows or fresh air. Light came from a blazing fire which burned constantly and Hungerford finally conceded to removing his jacket. The air tasted of metal, grease and death.

  “You are late, my Lord,” said Hassi, his accent thick with the dust and heat of his native Algeria.

  “Nonsense. I’m never late,” mumbled Hungerford. Hassi did not reply but instead went over to his workbench, where a small cas
e was sat.

  “I-is that…it?” stammered Hungerford. Hassi nodded. “Can I see it? Has the jeweller finished his work?”

  Hassi nodded again. “A fine man, your jeweller. Very professional. He understood the nature of the piece and set the stones with a true artist’s eye.”

  “He’s the best,” murmured Hungerford, his eyes locked onto the small case. “Only the best.”

  Hassi delighted in Hungerford’s expectation and teased him further.

  “Are you ready?”

  “Of course I’m ready, you great baboon! Open the case!”

  Hassi did as he was told and a smile spread across Hungerford’s face.

  Inside the case, laid on red velvet, was the most exquisite piece of jewellery ever produced. Along the top of the case was a belt fashioned in the traditional Moroccan style. Made of the finest tan leather in Africa, it comprised of a series of interlocking discs, each with holes around its circumference, a pattern of spirals and swirls nearer the middle and a large gold centre in the shape of a star. Each disc was then finished with a sapphire in the centre, sparkling and dancing in the flickering light of the fire. The buckle was a larger disc of pure gold, with a ruby at the centre. Around the circumference was some Arabic script, complemented by some native designs.

  Hungerford could hardly tear his eyes from the belt in order to look at the other item in the case. Below the belt lay the handle of a knife; it was curved gold, ornately designed and fantastically crafted. At the base was set another large ruby, so bright that it seemed to emit a glow in the gloom of the workshop. Along the handle was the same Arabic inscription as the belt and the guard at the top of the hilt was studded with several small sapphires.

  “The inscription?” asked Hungerford breathlessly.

  “As you requested: ‘To rule with passion and vigour, fairness and love.’”

  “It’s beautiful,” concluded Hungerford.

  “Yes, as I say, the jeweller is the best I have ever seen,” said Hassi. He leaned in to catch Hungerford’s eye. “He still warned against your decision for the blade…”

  “NO!” cried Hungerford, his sweating face turning to the craftsman. “Damn it Hassi, Her Majesty will receive only the best! We agreed!”

  “Yes, we did, but the blood-cast technique is little more than a myth. It has not been attempted for hundreds of years.”

  “Can you do it?” demanded Hungerford.

  “Yes. I think so.”

  “Then what are you so afraid of?”

  Hassi paced the room for a few moments.

  “The blood-cast is cursed. Anyone who has tried to use it since has met a sad and untimely death. You are a good man, my Lord. Marrakech would hate to lose you over a gift.”

  “Do it,” spat Hungerford. “and curses be damned.”

  Hassi set about preparing the blood-cast. This was a technique used by the ancient tribes of North Africa, whereby a unique metal alloy, as strong as steel and light as air, was combined with the blood of a man. The alloy was made into the blade of a knife. When the alloy was set, the blade would turn an intense shade of red. When used in battle, it would strike the enemy dumb with fear. Hungerford had heard of this local legend and commissioned Hassi to recreate it, especially for this present for Her Majesty. Hungerford had volunteered blood from his own veins for the final product, wishing sacrifice a little of himself for his Queen. He saw it as a symbolic gesture; the lifeblood of England running deep into the traditions of North Africa. Hassi saw it as just plain foolish.

  Hassi set about the casting process. When it was ready, Hassi nodded to Hungerford, who approached cautiously, his bare arm raised before him. Hassi picked a small dagger from his collection around him on the walls, waved it through the flames to sterilise it and then placed the blade against Hungerford’s skin. They both looked away as the metal pierced the skin and Hungerford’s blood sprung forth, spraying a little into the fire. Hassi quickly guided the wounded limb over the basin which held the alloy and gently stirred the melted metal with another instrument. Hassi didn’t even look at the wounded Lord as he shuffled carefully to his workbench where he tipped the metal into a mould.

  They waited for hours for the metal to cool and resisted the temptation to look at their experiment. Finally they stood and Hassi cracked open the stone and sand mould.

  “Has it worked?” asked Hungerford, too exhausted and nervous to look.

  The blade was long and thin, curved like a crescent moon. When joined to its hilt, it would look magnificent, grand and fearsome. Light on it shimmered and glowed. Most importantly, it was a perfect shade of crimson.

  “Yes! Yes! It has worked!” smiled Hassi. “We have done it! The Crimson Blade of Marrakech!

  The men laughed, shook hands, drank and danced and rejoiced in their victory. Hungerford sat down and explained the next steps. When the blade and its handle were joined, two guards from the army would transport it over the sea to Gibraltar and then over land to Brittany. They then only had to sail across to Falmouth in the Republic of Cornwall, cross the border into England and make their way to London in time for Queen Victoria’s coronation in June. The journey across enemy territory in Spain and France was risky, but a boat journey from Marrakech to England was impossible, due to the increased pirate activity of recent years.

  “Besides,” concluded Hungerford, “The guards are trained killers, so any thief would be a fool to cross them.”

  They both gazed at the blade one last time. It was remarkable and they drank to their achievement once more.

  In the heat of the day and the surrounding filth of the bazaar, the humid Moroccan air was rich with parasites and bacteria. Hungerford’s self inflicted wound became infected and just three days later, in a deep fever, he died of blood poisoning. Stubborn to the end, his last words were reputed to be a repetition of his words that day in Hassi’s workshop:

  “Curses be damned…”

  -5-

  Marlborough Downs, England, 1898

  Ash was woken with a swift kick to his kidneys. The guard loomed over him and barked orders at him until he was up. The large clock that hung above the room read 4:30 in the morning and the rest of the dormitory was sleeping soundly. Ash looked around at the place for what he planned to be the last time and his eyes rested on the empty camp bed that was Drew’s. Ash had said goodbye to him the previous night. He had given himself an hour alone with him before alerting the doctor, as he knew that as soon as he reported the death, Drew would be carted away without a word. Ash had gathered together anything he could find of Drew’s and stored it under his own bed. There was precious little to show for a life; a cup, some spare shoelaces, a pair of braces and a few old penny dreadfuls. When the doctor finally came, he removed the body quickly, with no pomp and ceremony, or even a glance at his grieving friend.

  Ash had barely slept. His mind was racing constantly, constructing his escape. It was like Drew had set him a puzzle, giving him only a few pieces before letting him solve it himself. Once he completed it he would have the best gift of all: Freedom.

  Ash walked to the forge to start his extra shift, passing the Providence Engine. He felt the heat radiating from its firebox, smelt the smoke and steam and felt the hatred for the machine wash over him once more. It felt fitting that the very contraption that symbolised his incarceration would unknowingly assist in his escape.

  Checking there were no guards watching – most were asleep at this time in the morning – Ash approached one of the inmates who had the unenviable task of stoking the fires in the Engine’s bell. He knew the man to talk to. His name was Hinton Blewitt, a tall man with a pot belly and soot stained clothes, but with a curiously pristine waxed moustache. The Engine could never stop, or the whole Home would die and thousands of pounds of revenue would be lost; it was Blewitt’s job to see that the firebox was kept stoked at all times. Ash shook the man’s hand and surreptitiously handed him a pair of shoelaces as a bribe. A swift nod from Blewitt sealed the deal and Ash wen
t on his way to the forge.

  Time passed slowly that morning. It may have been Ash’s grief for Drew that made the day long, but it was more likely to be the impending mad plan that he was putting into action. To succeed, he reasoned, he needed luck, timing and a good friend on his side. Unfortunately the only thing he had to hand was an enemy, but it would have to do.

  Ash cornered Manningford Bruce in a quiet part of the forge. His eyes were black from the previous day’s altercation.

  “Don’t hit me,” he said, almost whimpering.

  “I’m not going to hit you,” said Ash, his voice low and even. “You’re going to start a fight at noon.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m not going to repeat myself. Start a fight with anyone you like in the forge. Nice and loud.”

  Bruce was confused. It didn’t take much.

  “What for?”

  Ash sighed. Bruce had never needed a reason to fight up until now.

  “I’ll give you these,” Ash said and produced Drew’s old penny dreadfuls from under his shirt. Bruce took them and examined them, his eyes darting back to Ash as quickly as possible. He was like a monkey wary of being lured into a cage.

  “And?” said Bruce. Ash sighed again.

  “And it’ll really annoy Bishop Cannings.”

  This seemed to do the trick.

  “Oh, right. You should’ve said in the first place.”

  Bruce went off happy while Ash shook his head in disbelief.

  “Come on Ash,” he muttered to himself. “It’s not over yet.”

  *****

  The morning crept slowly towards 12 o’clock, when Ash had set himself the quite ridiculous task of escaping. He couldn’t concentrate on work all day, his mind full of the things that could go wrong. He could be betrayed by Bruce; he could be caught away from his post; he could get in the wrong pipe and be sucked into the Providence Engine itself. He had no time to doubt himself. If ever he got cold feet, all he would have to do was picture in his mind that curious red curved dagger flashing back and forth and the maniacal look on Cannings’s face.