The two men chuckled. Gossimer sat down on the opposing sofa. With delicate hands he placed the small crate he had been tasked to carry on the small table between him and his master. Neither spoke. Neither moved. Both kept their eyes on the little, wooden crate marked with nothing but a singular cog on the lid. They both knew they embarked on a journey that, one way or another, would change Wynne forever.
“Ser Gossimer?” Nine’s soft whirring voice broke the silence, resounding from the speaker-box.
“Yes Nine?” Gossimer asked, realizing he had left the communication line open.
“The one called Nine surveys slow moving traffic along all road ways. We will be at parliament later than anticipated.”
“How long?” Gossimer hung his head, frustrated once more by the weather.
“The one called Nine suspects one hour or two.”
“Del Morte be damned!” His master cursed. “You might as well get cozy boy, this is going to be a long day.”
“Thank-you Nine.” Gossimer said, ignoring his master’s protestations. “Let us know when we arrive.”
“Understood Ser Gossimer.”
Gossimer flicked the switch to one-way conversing to give the machine the ability to update its passengers.
The trip was, indeed, slow going. Being located on Driftwood Isle, deep in the tropics of Wynne, the city of Gossac was ill prepared for snowfall. The city did not have a work force dedicated to the varying degrees winter maintenance often required during the freezing climes of winter’s icy grasp. As such, the streets were often crowded as citizens banded together, working hard night and day, to clear the snow from the roadways. In order to prevent slick, dangerous patches of ice from forming, the citizenry often lay thick layers of salt, or gravel along the many roads and sidewalks.
Despite the best efforts of Gossac’s people, many autos still found themselves toppled due to unseen ice. Often times the elements would cause the spokes and wheels of the autos to splinter in the sudden cold. Gossac was now a city thrown into a wintery realm of chaos, and all of it served to hamper the traveling duo.
After two hours rumbling through the city streets, the auto finally rolled to a stop.
“We have arrived at our location.” Nine’s electric voice finally chimed.
Pulling a nearby curtain aside, Gossimer checked to ensure they truly had arrived at their destination. Outside rose the parliament, lonely and forlorn, buried in deep layers of snow. Beyond its domed roof was the silhouette of the Grand Tower of Time, ominous, yet still eerily beautiful against the grey skies. Several wheel tracks led around the side of the building, headed towards the auto shed.
“Gossimer,” his master said, breaking the heavy silence that had filled the cabin of the auto for the past two hours. “Be a good lad and sit with me a moment.”
Gossimer looked at his master, the hard man whom he deemed a second father. The man’s proud shoulders seemed to slump, as if the weight of the world rested on him and him alone.
“Ser?” Gossimer rose from the sofa he sat upon and shuffled across the cabin to join his master.
“You’ve done well by me lad,” Lucian said, though he did not look directly at Gossimer. “You’ve a stout heart, which is more than what many can claim in these dark times.”
“Thank you ser,” Pride welled in Gossimer’s throat, for a compliment from the stern general was a rarity.
“Don’t thank me boy, ‘tis the truth.” Sighing, his master leaned forward, running his hands over the crate that still sat upon the small table. “These days grow darker with each passing hour. As much as I fear this council will not serve the needs of our people, or Wynne as a whole, during the setting sun of this peace, I still respect the notion the council was founded upon. I am a man bound by honour, and honour would have me serve both Valvius and this thrice damned council.
“To be honest,” His master continued. “I am surprised our Chancellor has opted to follow through with Lady Schernoff’s ideas, with or without the support of the council.”
Gossimer sat silent, not knowing what to say to a man as hard as a diamond, and as harsh as a Syntaran winter. He let his own eyes return to the package on the table, knowing the day would not end well.
“You have one more service to perform for me this day,” Lucian looked into Gossimer’s eyes with that same sadness Gossimer thought to have seen earlier. “Afterwhich your services as my steward will be no longer needed.”
“Ser?” Gossimer didn’t know what to think. In all his years as steward to Valvian councilors, Gossimer never anticipated a release from his duties.
“Don’t you fret son,” the general smiled. “Valvius will have need of you in these coming days. Your hard years as steward have not been for naught. I am sending you and Nine to Brixon on a private, and secret, airship in the evening.”
“Brixon?” Gossimer furrowed his brow. “Why, ser?”
“An old family friend has been given the command of the unit that will search for my cousin Katherine. He shall need your stout heart lad.” Lucian paused, only for a brief moment. “If all goes the way I suspect, I will be withdrawing Valvius from the council effective the end of the month.”
“Ser, is that wise?” Gossimer chewed his lip anxiously. No province in the history of the Great Peace had ever pulled its interests out of the council. It was an unorthodox concept that, if even spoken to the wrong person, could cause such a monumental rift amongst the provinces of Wynne.
“Aye. The world is a flawed place and this council and its thrice damned mandate only holds the people of Wynne back.” Lucian lifted the crate off the table, handing it to Gossimer. “Unless the issue holds the interests of those who sit at the white table, the council will not act. I fear, even though we are the most prosperous of provinces, the council’s investments elsewhere prevents them from taking proper action.”
“What am I to do then, ser?” Gossimer asked.
“I want you to bring this evidence to Council.”
“Me?” Gossimer asked, more surprised than anything. “What can I do to sway the council?”
“In truth?” His master sighed. “Nothing.” Lucian rose from the sofa, tucking his top hat under his arm. “But a steward, current or former, has never stepped foot into the council chambers. If Valvius is to go out, then let us do so in a way to be remembered.”
A rush of cold, winter air filled the cabin of the auto as his master opened the side door. He gave Gossimer a lingering look of encouragement before heading up into the parliament building. Gossimer remained for several minutes, perplexed by everything that had befallen him in such short time.
Gossimer was stunned, to say the least. He worried over his presence in the fabled room of the white table, for it was forbidden for stewards to enter the grand room. Gossimer further stressed over what he would say. Having sent, and received, many of his master’s telegrams, Gossimer knew all and more of the tragic events that befell his province. What he doubted was his ability to relay the urgency for action, for if the great Lucian Margoux had been unable to stir the council to action, how could Gossimer ever hope too?
Gossimer continued to mull over everything as he finally moved to join his master. The snow fell in fat, slow flakes now and there was only the faintest hint of a biting wind. Stepping out of the auto, Gossimer’s boots crunched upon a thick layer of coarse salt. The crate in his hands seemed to become heavier as he took each fateful step towards the looming building.
Waiting at the base of the small stair leading to the large iron door was the familiar bundled silhouette of Elenor. Gossimer offered only the most cursory of glances to the woman he had spent several evenings with since their introduction, for his task at hand could not afford such distractions.
After ascending the small flight of steps and passing through the oversized doorway, Gossimer entered the parliament to an icy cold reception.
The priestesses of Del Morte stood at their post at either side of the great stair to the upper floor.
Their veiled eyes always looking forward, though Gossimer knew they followed his every move. It made his skin crawl. Their silent judgement always unnerved him, but now, on the cusp of such volatile negotiations, Gossimer could not help but feel his very essence being considered by the high father’s servants.
Gossimer stopped short of the stair. With a deep apprehensive breath, he began his harrowing ascent. His blood raced as each foot led him closer and closer to the upper floor. Below, the excited whispers of his fellow stewards began to fill the hall as they realized what Gossimer was doing. They assembled at the base of the stair, curious as to what was happening.
“Where ye goin’ Gossy?” Little Gerold hollered.
Gossimer never looked back, nor did he answer. He needed to maintain his strength and will for the trials that awaited him.
Gossimer stepped foot onto the second floor landing, after what felt like an agonizing slow crawl up the magnificent flight of stairs. Ahead of him ran a long corridor, lined intermittently by the veiled priestesses of Del Morte. Though the silent sisters did not turn to gaze upon Gossimer, he knew their eyes bore deep holes into his soul. He clutched the parcel in his hand, kept his chin up and strode down the long corridor before him.
Despite his nervous haste, Gossimer still found it in him to admire the cherry stained maple paneling. Each panel to his right was adorned with golden everflame lanterns. The left of the corridor housed portraits of the most revered council members history had produced.
At the end of the hall was a large, double set door wrought of iron. Gold inlay twisted around the edges of the door, creating a shining yellow braid. The surface of the door had been constructed with copper and bronze gear-workings. Unlike most gear displays in Wynne, Gossimer knew the devices upon this door served a true purpose other than decorum. This was the door into the council chambers, the room of the white table. Beyond its threshold sat the most politically powerful men and women in all of Wynne.
As he came to stand before the door, a mechanical clicking erupted in the hall, setting the ominous silence of the hallway awash with the grinding of sliding steel and clatter of rotating gears. The heavy doors swung inward, revealing a brightly lit room on the opposing side.
The walls within matched the cherry stained wood of the long corridor without, replete with everflame lanterns and priestesses of Del Morte. At the far end of the rotunda rose an oversized full back throne of polished brass. Seated there was Rosemary Sharpe, the Speaker of the Commons. Following the contours of the chamber ran a long, solid, white marble table with eleven smaller thrones, each matching the speaker’s chair.
Light from the outside world shone down on the center of the chambers from the large, glass dome of the rotunda. Hidden beyond the panes of thick glass and collected snow, the peak of the Grand Tower of Time looked down upon those assembled.
“Come forward lad,” Madame Sharpe said, breaking the stiff silence of the room. “I am certain you will recognize many here through your services with Master Margoux.”
Gossimer kept silent as he walked into the center of the room, nodding his agreement.
“However,” she continued, “for the sake of formality, even with this unorthodox meeting, I must make the rounds.” She rose from her throne to introduce the assembly; “The gentleman to my right is councilor Antony Grey of Gryk; you will find the lady Maggie Del Rosa of Syntar beside him, with the Di Delgan councilor Alisson Schernoff. You will, of course, know your master Lucian Margoux of Valvius, as well as Karlos Sinclaire of fair little Pozo; further down we have Issac D’Bleu of Grubbenbrut and the lovely lady Janeth Stronon of Ynoux.”
“Pleased, I’m sure.” Gossimer smiled, shifting the weight of the package to his other hand.
“And, coming round my left,” Madame Sharpe continued, “we have our dear representatives from the College of Kinetics. We have the terrakinetic Louise Von Brae, hydrokinetic James Nichols, the ever exciting electrokinetic Edison Brock; and, finally, our most revered pyrokinetic, Julien DiMarco.”
Gossimer smiled to the kinetic presence of the council as Madame Sharpe returned to her seat. Unlike many citizens of Wynne, Gossimer did not view the kinetic folk as anything more than an average being. In fact, he rather distrusted their lot for many of Wynne’s problems always seemed to stem from these so-called gifted people.
“Young ser,” the familiar, tired voice of Julien DiMarco was the first to speak. “We are told you hold a piece of evidence that will aid your ailing province in these trying times.”
“Aye,” Gossimer licked his lips, nerves racing. “That I do.” He stepped closer to the elliptical table. He knew showcasing the evidence would not be effective.
Gossimer paused for a moment as he formulated his approach. He recalled one of the many telegrams the Valvian chancellor had sent after the attack on Le Clos Noire. Gossimer hoped the details of that message would give credence to the package in his possession.
“But before I reveal the contents of this box,” he indicated to the parcel tucked under his arm. “I feel it best to tell how we came about it.”
“Boy,” the Lady Del Rosa chided. “We care not for the fanciful tales spun by Valvian stewards. Let us have this evidence and be done with this.” The woman slapped the tabletop.
“Madam Sharpe,” the dignitary from Ynoux added. “This is folly. Just take the box under the yelp’s arm and send him back to the stewards.”
“My dear Maggie and good Janeth,” Gossimer’s master leaned over the fine marble surface to look both in the eye. “Have you not heard? Gossimer is no longer in my service.” Winking at Gossimer, the general continued. “Let the boy tell his bit. I am sure it is an intriguing yarn that I think even old Julien might find interesting.”
“I do not care for tales councilor.” Del Rosa said. “I sit at this table for business and industry. I care not for the woeful story that is surely attached to this. Lay the box on the floor boy and be gone.”
“Councilor’s, please.” Madame Sharpe interjected. “Young ser, are you in service to Lucian Margoux?”
Gossimer looked to his master, as if finally understanding his release of service. “No, madam. Master Margoux released from my duties.”
“Then you have my leave to continue.”
“Thank-you mum.” Gossimer cleared his throat, uncomfortable under the watchful eyes of the council. “I am sure some of you have learnt by now, the hamlet of Le Clos Noire in the western frontiers of Valvius has recently been attacked. It was a small force, made of those who have haunted Valvius these past months. They came in numbers not yet seen, indicating this was more than just a simple raid. Thankfully, these people underestimated our defences and the attack was repelled, though at great cost.”
“Madam Speaker, this is nothing new.” Del Rosa objected. “Master Margoux brought this tale to council only three days past.”
“Listen to the boy, damnit.” Karlos Sinclaire, the representative of Pozo, hissed through his thick accent.
“I concur.” The Lady Schernoff added. “Please continue Gossimer.”
“Del Morte curse you lot.” The Syntaran councilor slouched in her chair, eyes seething with rage and annoyance.
“Thank-you.” Gossimer gave a polite bow, recalling his lessons on courtly conduct. “What council may not know, however, is that there was an airship supply drop not but a league from the village. This drop contained several dozen crates filled with food, bandages, weapons and ammunition.”
A thick silence hovered over the chambers. Gossimer knew each councilor weighed the gravity of what such a revelation meant for the future of Wynne. At least, he hoped they realized how significant the story truly was.
“Is this true Master Margoux?” Julien DiMarco asked, adjusting his pyrokinetic lenses as they slid down his frail, thin nose.
“Aye, DiMarco.” Gossimer’s master said. “I have had a sample of the most curious piece from this drop sent by a private charter. It was difficult to find a safe landing place due to the
snows, but we did it. Show them Gossimer.”
“Ladies, gentlemen and kinetics of the council. The rumors of kinetic involvement with these attacks against Valvius can now be put to rest. This supply held several crates of this size,” Gossimer revealed the package under his arm for all to see.
“Dear boy, what could possibly be hidden in such a small crate to implicate the kinetic people?” the electrokinetic, Edison Brock, spoke.
Gossimer ignored the growing protestations from the kinetic representatives, letting his own voice grow in order to be heard.
“Laying inside these boxes,” Gossimer opened the lid of the crate, and set it on the table in front of Madame Sharpe. “Are several dozen kinetically imbued bullets.”
“This is outrageous!” Julien rose from his seat as the council chambers broke into a cacophony of excited, terrified, and angry voices.
“Councilmen, please.” Madame Sharpe rose, indicating with her arms for silence. It took several minutes for the commotion to die down before she could continue. “Boy, this is a grave accusation.”
“Yes mum.” Gossimer agreed. “But it’s clear the kinetic people are involved. This all but proves it.”
“Listen to me boy,” Julien Di Marco’s voice was shaking with anger as he eyed Gossimer from behind his lenses. “The kinetic people do not, and will not, imbue ammunition on a scale of this size. It is a tiresome process. One that takes several weeks to process even a small handful – which is often reserved for nobility.”
“Here, here!” The Syntaran and Ynouxian councilors agreed.
“Madam Speaker,” Alisson Schernoff spoke. “This is indeed compelling evidence, and should not be taken lightly.”
“I concur,” echoed Antony Grey and Karlos Sinclaire.
“Perhaps we should look more into this particular matter?” the small voice of Issac D’Bleu asked.
“No.” Gossimer’s master said.“We do need seek to investigate the matter. It is obvious there is kinetic involvement, whether you admit it or not. The College of Kinetics is seeing record high drop out rates, and now crates full of kinetically imbued ammunition show up. Not to mention the stories of from commoners seeing forms of elemental control during the attack on the Defiance.”
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