The Spark (11 page)

“For the safety of yourself and your fellow passengers, I would ask for you all to remain still as we ascend to the docks above.” The man said, cranking a winch several times. The operator then reached above his head and pulled on a tight cord. Chiming bells filled the air as each tug of the rope signaled the lift’s departure.

Marcus steadied himself as the gilded cage jostled to life.

The clatter of gears and whining of the various pulleys seemed to roar to life. A gentle, but sudden, rush of air rustled Marcus’ hair as the lift sped along the side of the tower. The tension that had fallen over the passengers could be cut with a knife, for none had ever taken such a thrilling, and beautiful, ride before. Many, Marcus assumed, were amazed by the majesty their fair city of Malefosse displayed when viewed from above.

For Marcus it was amazing to see the steep roofs and smoke stacks of the central district shrink away as he was carried into the heavens. From these ominous heights, the sprawling cityscape seemed nothing more than a child’s set of blocks. Beyond and to the east, the soot-covered roofs of Marcus’ old haunt seemed all the sadder. He had not realized just how poor and decrepit the buildings of the east district really were. To add insult to injury, these heights provided the passengers of the lift a clear view of the north and south districts.

These were the designated zones for the rich and powerful noble families of Malefosse. The streets were ornate cobblestone roadways. As beautiful as the masonry of the roads of these districts were, it was nothing compared to the looming manses and villas of the wealthy. Marcus thought each home tried to out do its neighbour by adding an extra tier or embellishment. Some properties sported large statues of bronze, granite, or limestone to honour the traditions of the past. Others clutched onto modern styles and displayed effigies of various expensive metals. It was a slanted society like this that Marcus, and those he shared the speeding lift with, were headed to change.

With a sudden jolt, the passenger lift came to a stop. Unlike the loading area at the base of the tower, the cage entered into an ornate receiving room. It was the most beautiful space Marcus had ever seen. The walls rose ten feet where they met a small domed ceiling of glass. Bright sunlight shone through the thick glass, pouring down into the room and lighting the golden frescoes of Syntar’s proud history with a fiery light.

“Everyone out.” The operator declared as he slid the cage door open. “There’s nary a wind today, so you do not need to use the safety rails; however, we do suggest you utilize them for your own well being.”

The man stepped out of the lift and crossed the small space to the far wall where a large double door of darkly stained wood waited. Marcus followed the crowd, keeping step beside James.

“You lot will be taking
The Majestic
.” The operator said as the group of passengers joined him by the waiting doors. “She has made berth at loading dock three.”

Marcus’ heart raced as the lift operator reached for a small lever. As the man gave the rod a pull, the great wooden doors parted down the middle, each end sliding open. Beyond the safety of the receiving room lay a wide, flat, steel plated surface, which met with the sky. A maze of iron rails led from the lift house to the assortment of loading docks.

It was stunning.

Marcus felt as if he could reach out and touch the very bottom of Del Morte’s kingdom as the clouds converged around the air dock. The faintest tendrils of a breeze played with Marcus’ shirt as he followed the group across the sturdy surface of the harbour.

“Bea’ful ain’t it?” James asked from behind.

“Aye.” Marcus said as the group made a small change in direction at a junction point. The party of salters passed by the two other air ships, all teeming with fellow salt kin. Both these vessels were large and proud, but not quite as regal as the vessel Marcus’ troupe now approached.

“What a right name.” James said as the group arrived at the landing for
The Majestic
.

Marcus agreed.

The Majestic
sat suspended in the air by an oversized canvas filled with air. The ship itself could not have been smaller than one hundred feet in length. Black flags with the tell tale gold cog of the Imperial Order of Wynne fluttered to and fro in the light morning breeze. Her hull was a deep, saturated honey colour. There were no blemishes to be found in the remarkable wood, save for the dozens, upon dozens, of circular view ports. At her prow was a solid gold figurehead, wrought in the guise of a royal lion. The animal sat proud and demure with a gem-encrusted crown upon its mane.

A crated catwalk ran from
The Majestic
’s deck to the dock below. Six men in black uniforms waited for the approaching group of salters at the entrance of the gangway. To Marcus, they looked as proud and noble as the vessel they manned.

“Welcome, sons of Syntar.” One of the men said as the party reached the base of the dock. “The Imperial Order extends our thanks to each of you for being stout hearted men willing to do what is necessary to better Wynne.

‘Join us, now,” he continued. “For this
Majestic
vessel will carry you on the first step towards your future.”

Marcus’ heart beat wild in his chest as he crossed over the precarious catwalk. A combination of fear and pride drove him forward. The thought of making a difference in the world was exhilarating; the idea of being a part of such an endearing organization filled Marcus with a wild hope for this world in which he lived.

As he stepped onto the firm, wooden deck of
The Majestic
, surrounded by fellow salters, Marcus Seyblanc knew he had made the right choice for his future.

A
n hour or two had come and gone before Gossimer received the Speaker of the Commons telegram obliging his master’s request for yet another emergency session of council.

In that time, Gossimer never left Lucian Margoux’s side, who struggled with how best to approach the desperate matter at hand. His master had littered a journal with all manner of openings and statements. Sometimes his master would even ask Gossimer for input. Gossimer knew the biggest challenge Lucian faced was how he would announce the Chancellor’s agreement to the Lady Schernoff’s plan to search for Valvius’ missing citizenry, regardless of the council’s decision.

The entire time, Gossimer’s eye never left the small, wooden crate, which arrived the previous evening.

“I hope the council will finally agree to assist.” Gossimer said as his eyes traced the contours of the box yet again. “This evidence is too good. It
needs
to work.”

“I agree lad.” His master said, though it was clear his thoughts were elsewhere. Rubbing his temples, Lucian turned to Gossimer. “Time to go.”

Gossimer rose from his seat to fetch his master’s newest, and heaviest, fur lined coat from the front hall. The garment was heavy and full. It had been fashioned from the hide of a lumbering beast, which hunted in the marshes of Grubbenbrut and the Narn Wood of Valvius. Gossimer first checked the deep crevices that were the jacket’s pockets, ensuring the ornate cigarette tin was indeed full for his master. Next, he dug out a pair of wild beaver skin gloves from the deep recesses of the sleeves.

“Gossimer,” His master said as he stepped into the hall, buttoning a rich, maroon vest. “Has everything been prepared?” Lucian spread his arms wide, giving Gossimer the room needed to slide the heavy coat on.

“Yessir,” The steward said, handing Lucian a black top hat and a deep-red scarf made from sheep’s wool. “I instructed Mary to have Nine bring the auto ‘round front as soon as I received the telegram.”

“Excellent.” Lucian wrapped the scarf tightly around his neck and tucked the tails down the center of the coat. “Before we leave, don’t forget to bring the crate.”

“Of course sir,” Gossimer said. He took the few quick steps back into the study to retrieve the cursed piece of evidence. The box surprised Gossimer with how light it truly was, despite the deadly cargo it carried. With the box in hand, Gossimer rejoined his master in the front hall.

“You know Gossimer,” his master sighed as Gossimer returned. “I still cannot believe Del Morte has brought snow to Gossac. Cold days are one thing,” Lucian turned his hard eyes towards Gossimer, “but near endless snow fall? These are truly strange times indeed.”

“Maybe it’s the end times, ser.” Gossimer said as he placed the small package on a side table in order to don his own, thin jacket. “Maybe Del Morte has finally had enough of us.”

“Well put lad,” His master’s laugh was as rough and grizzled as he was, though one would expect nothing less from a revered military man. “Though I doubt the mighty god has much to do with us mere men anymore.”

Gossimer shared in the small jest as he fastened his own threadbare scarf around his neck. Reaching into his own pocket, Gossimer retrieved two tightly rolled cigarettes. He put one between his own lips, while offering the other to his master. Lucian took the smoke with a grateful, yet, somehow, sad acceptance.

From his other pocket, Gossimer revealed a travel-sized tinderbox. He drew a single wood match and struck its coated tip against the rough surface of the box. Gossimer offered the flame to his master first before lighting his own cigarette with a deep, long drag.

“Lead on, lad.” His master said with a puff of thick grey-blue smoke. “The winds of winter beckon.”

Without so much as a moment’s hesitation, Gossimer stuffed his matchbox into his pocket, retrieved the wooden crate from the side table and led the way to the front door. With one hand on the gilded knob, Gossimer pushed open the heavy oak door of the manse, revealing the winter wonderland without.

Fat snowflakes drifted from the heavens on a calm break in the wind. Each flake danced lightly on the currents before coming to rest on the waiting blanket of snow below. The rooftops of neighbouring villas seemed burdened by the weight of the collecting snow. Thick smoke rose from chimney spouts, covering the immediate area in a fine layer of soot and smoke. Trees, hedges, and walls seemed all but buried within the white kiss of old man winter.

Waiting at the gated entrance to Lucian Margoux’s manse was the unmistakable silhouette of the luxurious councilor’s auto. A faint, azure glow permeated from the driver’s position, indicating the mechanical construct, Nine, was ready to go.

Salt crunched beneath their boots as servant and master descended the front steps of the house. Great puffs of smoke escaped from both men’s mouths as each took long drags of their cigarette. Lucian paused to watch children across the way as they frolicked upon the banks of a great snow mound.

“Look at them Gossimer,” he said as the children tossed snow at one another. “Can you recall a time of such carefree inhibitions?”

“Aye ser,” Gossimer admitted. “Though, it was many moons ago.”

“Listen to you,” his master chuckled. “You’re not nearly two and twenty and yet you speak of such a time like that of a man as myself.” Lucian tossed the remains of his cigarette into a nearby mound of snow. “But I suppose that is what we do by taking on stewards. We strip you of your childhood to make our lives simpler.”

Gossimer gave a weak smile. There was a truth in his master’s words, but it was a truth Gossimer had long learned to look past.

“Come,” Lucian patted his steward’s shoulder. “Let us get this farce over with.”

Tossing his own cigarette into the snow, Gossimer sped ahead to open the door of the waiting auto. His master was not far behind. Gossimer thought he caught a strange glimmer of remorse in his master’s eyes just before he ducked his head low to hustle into the awaiting compartment. There was something profoundly bothering his master today, that much Gossimer knew, but for fear of wasting time he pushed his thoughts away and followed suit.

Gossimer shut the ebony stained door of the auto just as his master removed his top hat and sat heavily upon the cushioned seat of a sofa. Turning to the square communication device mounted on the wall, Gossimer flicked the two-way conversation function to on.

“Take us to parliament Nine.” Gossimer ordered as he ran his fingers through his hair.

“Understood Ser Gossimer.” The mechanical creature’s soft electrical voice responded.

“Don’t forget to mind the roads.” Gossimer did not doubt the machine knew as such, though he did not wish to take chances.

“The one called Nine understands.”

The carriage slowly rumbled to life as Gossimer set about his next task. Not wanting to waste time, Gossimer busied himself with fetching a hearty drink for his master from the ornately carved bar.

Normally, Gossimer served the infamous Pozian fire rum, but with the sea and air harbours of Driftwood Isle closed due to weather, all he had been able to rummage was the meaty ales of the local populace. The drink itself was never terrible, more yeasty then anything, and always as dark as sin. A soft yellow head typified the drink; however, in the wake of the obscure weather, brew masters toyed with the wild fauna and berry reserves. This often altered the mousse to pungent greens, bleeding reds or royal blues. The best stouts in Gossac were the rare vanilla bean infused ales, which sported a stark white head, as soft as a down pillow and every bit frothy. Today’s serving poured thick, with the dullard hues of golden piss.

“Not a rare or fanciful drink I’m afraid.” Gossimer said, noting Lucian’s dismay at the drink. “But one to chase the cold.”

“We share this isle with the kinetics of Wynne,” his master took the drink, trying to not have it slosh onto his trousers as the auto bobbed over the snow-laden streets. “And they cannot find a means to use their talent to keep the shipping ports open!” He took a small sip, forcing the drink down. “Not the worst, though, not as wonderful as fire rum either.”

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.