The Spark (7 page)

“They pay that much fer entry?” Marcus’s mind raced with visions of a wage that would match, or even beat, his father’s.

“Aye, and they school you too!” Gionni said.

“I thought ye were speakin’ queer, but thought ye were merely into your cups.” Marcus said, though he was dumbfounded by how wonderful this Order seemed
.
“How do ye join?”

“Well, you can do what the posters tell you to do and visit their office,” Gionni said. “But they will tell you to come back on a day when they run their recruitment tests.”

“What d’ye mean?” Marcus asked.

“Marcus,” Gionni shook his head, smiling. “If they let everyone join whenever they walked in, there’d be no one left in the streets. So, they tell you to come back on a specific day when they will test any who show up – this way those who are really interested will be signed up.”

Marcus looked at his old friend amazed.

“I want in.” Marcus said as he looked into his Gionni’s eyes. “I want t’ join.”

“Thought you would say that,” Gionni winked and put his arm over Marcus’s shoulder and lead the way towards the most reputable alehouse in the whole east district of Malefosse,
The Callous Maidenhead
.

The rest of the morning Marcus and Gionni shared many drinks as they talked about their comings and goings, the weather and troubles of the world. Gionni regaled Marcus with tales of this
Imperial Order of Wynne
, detailing such things as the Order’s philosophies, worldly ambitions, as well as rooms full of beautiful women ready and willing for the right man. He showcased an intricately wrought repeating pistol, fashioned out of eerie wood and coppers. It was a beautiful and modest weapon that was standard fare for initiates.

“The Order needs strong men with strong seed.” Gionni had said before departing the
Maidenhead.
“Men who will do what is necessary.” Marcus’s friend left with a flourishing bow, declaring he would be a man tested in the field upon his return.

Marcus paid for his drinks and left the poorly lit alehouse behind. Much of the journey, from
The Callous Maidenhead
to the public bathhouse, passed in obscurity as Marcus contemplated his options. The warm weather had stirred his heart into a longing for something more than the life of a salter. He wanted to work and tinker with inventions as wild and daring as those in Oximande’s shop. Then there was his family. He may not care much for his mother, yet the image of his aging father sitting defeated at the dining room table compelled him to stay.

Marcus’ focus remained torn as he entered the steam, moisture-ridden canals of the communal bathing house. He had not taken much notice to the ladies in the corner, nor the scornful eyes of the elderly salt-kin. The splashing children weren’t a bother. Marcus went through the motions of bathing, making sure to get as much salt from his hair.

When he was sufficiently washed and grime free, he continued to the city’s market where he watched and waited amongst the crowd. The talk had been dull and lackluster, so he didn’t stay long. He soon found himself standing at the front door to his family’s modest shack they called home. Taking a sigh, Marcus entered the abode where he spent the rest of the day preparing for his mother’s important guests.

Later, after dinner had been served, and the company departed, the Seyblanc family sat at the table in sullen silence. Marcus discovered the person who hung on the bell had come calling again. His father had words with the man, but neither Marcus’s mother, nor father would share in the details.

All Marcus knew was the visitor brought ill-news, for if his father had seemed defeated during the confrontation with his mother, than he surely seemed good and done now. As terrible as the thought was, Marcus was glad to see his mother sat as hunched and defeated as his old man. Seeing his parents in such away bothered Marcus, more than the terrible changes in his mother
.
He had been undecided all day about his desires to join the Imperial Order Gionni was a member of. Now, however, he knew what he had to do.

There was a knot of hesitance in the bowels of Marcus’s stomach. He knew the money would be great for saving their household, but his parents seldom took drastic change well. They, like many salters of Malefosse, lived a life of contentment and fought change with as much vigor as possible.

“I ran into Gionni t’day.” Marcus said breaking the silence.

“An’ how is the young lad doin’?” His mother asked.

“Good. He’s learnt now.” Marcus smiled as this news peaked genuine interest from not only his mother, but his father as well.

“Now, where does a bloody Visconi go an’ get ‘imself learnt?” His mother huffed.

It was no secret, in the world of the salters, that the matron of the Seyblanc family and the matron of the Visconi family held a bitter rivalry. Marcus and Gionni’s friendship forced the two to come to terms with whatever feud they held, but the lingering resent was ever present.

“How does
she
get her boy taught on
her
wages?” His mother cursed.

“It has nothin’ t’do with Mrs. Visconi’s money mum,” Marcus began. “Nothin’ at all.”

“Then where does a rat like ‘im get learnt?” his father asked as he rubbed the bald of his head. “It has t’come from Mrs. Visconi’s pocket. Gionni don’t make that much.”

“Yer right father, he don’t make that much at the Manufactorum.” Marcus smiled. “But ‘is new boss pays ‘im that kind o’wage, with the schoolin’ fer free.”

“Now what proprietor in their right mind goes an’ hires salters fer that kind o’money?”

“I don’t know,” Marcus half admitted. In truth, despite how much Gionni and he spoke of the Imperial Order, Marcus didn’t learn all that much. Gionni focused more on the perks and benefits of joining and less on the tasks that were required. “But I know its through this Imperial Order o’ Wynne.”

“Aren’t they th’ ones puttin’ them posters strewn ‘bout the walls an’ lamps all ov’r the city?” His father asked, leaning into the table.

“Aye father, the very same.” Marcus said. “I was readin’ one o’ them when Gionni found me. They even gave ‘im this sharp outfit to wear. He’s only an initiate in their ranks, but I got t’ thinkin’ maybe I would join.”

“Ye would join?” Disbelief dripped from his mother’s voice. “M’dear Marcus, Gionni knows people. Surely he was permitted by some folk turnin’ their eye th’ other way. No company or ‘Order’ would hire a salter.”

“But they would mum.” Marcus protested. “Gionni tells it they don’t care ‘bout one’s station.”

His father sank back into his chair, deep in thought, while his mother stepped away from the table to stand by the bay window. Marcus watched both nervously for several minutes, licking his lips anxiously. He knew he had to wait for the right moment to lay his reasoning for them, but as much as he desired to, the memory of the morning’s events began to hold him back.

The doubt his mother showed was to be expected; however, wanting to avoid any confrontation Marcus knew he would have to relent to his mother.

“Yer most likely right mum.” Marcus feigned a sigh, letting his chin rest on his chest.

She stopped pacing to look at her son. “Pardon?”

“Yer most likely right, as always.” Marcus let disappointment weave into his voice. “Gionni must be connected, an’ his mother most likely went t’ great lengths t’ get him joined up. I’m sorry fer me foolishness.”

He heard the quick footfalls of his mother approach as he forced the first of many false tears from his eyes. Even in this rare moment of tenderness, the touch of his mother’s bony hand sent discomfort down his spine.

“Tis alright Marcus, we all dream.” Her red-stained lips kissed his brow. “Dreams are nice, but the world is cruel fer us salters.”

Marcus clenched his jaw in repulsion as his mother continued to touch him.

“T’day has been tryin’ an’ stressful.” She stepped away from Marcus, excusing herself from the room. Even in the face of calamity and heartache, his mother still played the role of a lady proper. She shuffled her way to the stairwell. At the base of the stair, she turned and looked back to Marcus and his father. “I retreat t’ bed now, hopin’ the morrow brings a better day.”

Marcus’ father sat at the table in silence before he too rose with the mention of bed.

Once he was alone, Marcus removed himself from the well-worn table and headed to the bay window. Sitting on its ledge he looked out over the darkening street. The everflame lamps were flicking to life. Marcus’ mind raced over the decision he had secretly come to. He hoped against hope this Order would accept him into their ranks and offer him the chance of proving his worth for the future of Syntar.

T
he air was hot, heavy and still as he sat astride his mechanical palfrey. The cobbles underneath radiated with heat as the hot sun above beat down on the parched earth. Crickets were the only creatures to be heard in a field where doves and larks, sparrows and jays were once known to orchestrate. The grasses that once were green now hung gold and brittle as they sprouted from cracked dirt.

Dalar Rhume looked out over the withering valley. Wiping the sweat from his brow with a gloved hand, Dalar turned his gaze to the northwest, where the plains met the forest’s edge. Beyond the treetops he could make out the speckled shingles of the rooftops of his hometown, Le Clos Noire. With a final, longing gaze at the small sight of home, Dalar continued on his southward journey.

He knew he should have taken the Chief Scholar’s offer for an auto; however, Dalar preferred the cortex-powered steeds. To him, the modern golem driven devices seemed nothing short of unnatural.

“Fundamentally they are the same,” Dalar explained to his wife as he saddled the mechanical beast. “But their differences are great. With the steed, I am in control of the construct, whereas the auto leaves me at the whim of the construct
.”

Three days prior to his trek, Dalar received an encoded telegram from the Chief Scholar of Valvius. The message within beckoned Dalar to Brixon in all haste, for a matter of national security needed his great mind. Dalar struggled for two days with the message, almost fearing it a ruse, but decided it best to heed the call as it was quite unlike Edwin to make such hasty requests.

Dalar reached behind into his saddlebag and retrieved his water skin
.
Raising the nozzle to his mouth, he took a few deep gulps, trying in vain to quench his thirst.

Far on the southern horizon, Dalar made out the towering spyres of Brixon, the capital of Valvius. He was still the better part of a days ride north of the populous city, but her towering monuments to time stood as spears against the sky. Their visage always inspired Dalar’s heart, despite his distaste for the big city. He watched their peaking silhouettes for several minutes before turning his attention elsewhere.

For the rest of the morning, and the better part of the afternoon, Dalar let his thoughts wander into days long past and friends who had come and gone. He had been born the son to a wealthy, and well respected, business magistrate. Being fourth in the line of heirs, Dalar accepted at a very young age he would never acquire the reins of his father’s business holdings. With this in mind, he took up reading and the pursuit of knowledge in his spare time. As a child, this proved to give him an edge during his lessons when the Rhume’s private tutor would come calling.

When Dalar reached seven years, he was declared gifted in the realm of literature. His father came under great pressure to submit Dalar to the greater teachings of the Council of Scholars; but, being a man who measured a man’s worth by the amount of money to his name and not the matter between ones ears, he refused to see his son admitted to the brotherhood’s teachings. It wasn’t until Dalar had grown into a man of his own did he then administer himself to the lessons of the scholarhood,

Those were the days Dalar cherished most. In many ways, they were all he could ever remember. There were many times when Dalar would be sitting in his study lost in thought, trying in vain to recall moments of his childhood. Every now and then a flicker of some repressed memory would give Dalar great joy; however, most of the time, he was unable to tap into those precious memories. He only hoped his son, a bright lad of three, would be able to fondly remember his days as a child. The hours of the day seemed to slip by as the High Scholar tried to recount his youth.

Dalar was surprised when he noticed the light begin to wane as the sun crawled beyond the western edge of the world. The brittle grasses radiated in the deep golden light of the setting sun. A lone sparrow sang a mournful song of hunger to the dying light.

The rolling vineyards of Valvius’ western territory looked nothing more than skeletal arms clawing from the ground. For the connoisseurs this was a travesty, for the Valvian reds were known as the epitome of the wine world. Now, with the devastating heat, their precious vintages were no more.

Soft blue light peaked through the crack and joints of his mount. The world immediately around the clopping, mechanical steed ate the wondrous light with wanton abandon – creating a circlet of varying shades and hues of blue along the roadway. Despite his protestations against the usage, and abuse, of the cortex technology, Dalar would always be the first to admit the light a cortex emitted was, perhaps, one of the most beautiful sights in all of Wynne. He did not know what it was about the radiating light, but whenever he saw it, he could not help but feel a sense of wonder at its subtle beauty.

Another hour or so passed before the sun gave way to the soft din of night, and still Dalar still drudged on.

Not far from where he rode, Dalar could see the orange glow of north facing braziers along Brixon’s outer walls. Even at this distance, the sound of joviality from the many taverns and inns resounded over the city’s wall. The smells of city life weighed heavily on the still, dust-laden air; from the putrid scent of human waste to the tantalizing aroma of various cooked goods, the aroma of Brixon filled Dalar’s senses with a warm, welcoming touch.

“Who goes there?” A soft, monotonous voice asked upon Dalar’s approach. A towering figure of over eight feet stepped out from a hidden shadow. Dalar was taken back by the mechanical construct that approached him. “Brixon does not get many travelers by night. State yourself and business.”

“Well, I travel by day, or night, as the need serves.” Dalar looked up into the glowing blue eyes of the golem.

“The one called five-eight-three must know what need that may be.” The electronic voice demanded.

“I am High Scholar Dalar Rhume,” Dalar gave a curt bow. “I am here on the orders of Chief Scholar Edwin VonBraun and Chancellor Baltrus Muge. I have ridden from Le Clos Noire in the north and followed the Mainway since the early rays of dawn.” Dalar indicated in the direction he had just come. “Typically, I would camp or make for one of the lovely inns along the way, but I have been called upon in urgency.” With a slow hand he reached into his saddlebag and produced the telegraph from Edwin. Dalar held the paper up high so the construct could examine the text.

“The one called five-eight-three apologizes.” It said, moving into a passive stance. “Brixon does not get many visitors outside of day. With all the trouble these days, the one called five-eight-three is to be extra vigilant.”

“Not a worry my good ser,” the scholar said. “I understand the terrors of our time. You have done your duty well. I shall commend your service to the Chancellor on the morrow.” Dalar smiled at the golem, who strangely seemed pleased to have received such a compliment. The mechanical guard led Dalar to a postern gate, as the main city entrance had been ordered to raise and fall with the sun. Dalar thanked the construct again and continued on his way.

The postern gate gave way to a winding flagstone road that followed the outer perimeter of the grand city. Closing his eyes, Dalar figured he would have to follow this roadway to the west for a mile or so, before being able to join the Goldway at a junction point.

The Goldway will then run for about another mile to the south, where I will branch off, but this time onto the east running Onyx Ring – that glorious district of exotic animals and trade goods. From there I will have to continue, passing several junction points until I find Verdigris Avenue, which will lead me to the north again and the home of the scholars – the Grande Libatorium of Wynne.

Dalar smiled, as he was able to retrace the well-traversed path through the large city in his mind.

During his formative years within the scholarhood, Dalar found that, outside of diplomacy and literature, he had a natural gift with cartography and world geography. The added area of study only prolonged his schooling, but now Dalar could say that he was one in about a dozen or so to be as well versed in the world they lived; the study of geography was one often looked down on by the scholars, but Dalar found he had an innate skill in its teachings, so he spent an extra four years in persuit of perfecting his knowledge. Now he was so versed with the lay of the land, he could close his eyes and visualize every feature along the way, allowing him the ability of marking out the quickest path to his destinations.

It took Dalar the better part of three hours to traverse the way from postern gate to the Grande Libatorium. He had not counted on the streets to be congested with auto carriages and citizens. In the past, most of Brixon would have been at home, sitting by a fire or enjoying a family dinner. Dalar did not doubt the heat of day led to a city that thrived in the cool of night.

The scholar was glad to find the central square mostly void of activity. There were a few street performers loitering around the bases of three towing obelisks located at the heart of the wide square. These were the Valvian Towers of Time – a monument to man’s relation to the whimsical nature of the past, present and future. There was a lone copper plaque on a raised pedestal declaring the monument’s message:

Without recalling the past, how can the man of the present look to better his future?

It was a fitting message, made to honour the men who had fallen during the Great War and to warn against further such travesties.

Dalar rode around the far edge of the smallest limestone spire, which represented the future, letting the weight of its testament fill his soul with hope. Taking a deep breath, he led his steel-framed steed away from the monuments and towards the Grande Libatorium.

The front façade of the building was adorned with sculptures of the greatest scholars in the history of Wynne. The visage of Bold Newton of the ancient province of Issa stood central amongst the other effigies. In his hand he held an apple, as if to test his theory of gravity. Flanking Newton to either side were monuments to the great Asimo and Strauss, who were brothers from Ynoux, proving the world did in fact rotate around the sun.

The building itself was designed with tall, exaggerated angles, domed roofs, and hidden patios and balconies. Wild ivy encroached most of the lower sections of the stucco walls, providing a lovely sense of nature in the midst of the urban sprawl. The windows of the Libatorium were often too large, and always came to a curved top, mimicking the stained glass domes above.

Dalar smiled as he caught a glimpse of the verdigris stained copper plating that served as shingling for the building. He knew many members of the scholarhood praised the verdigris rooftops as a sign and testament to the persuit of knowledge. Many of these men and women often used the roof as their shield against the naysayers, declaring,

“
Only a sharp and trained mind can stand forever, like a sturdy copper roof. Yes it may get worn and withered, and age will clearly show; however, the roof maintains its shape and purpose and needs no repair
- just like the mind of a scholar
.”

Dalar always thought it to be a rather ludicrous saying, and felt it only proved the common peoples views about the Council of Scholars; a view that painted the men and women of the scholarhood as nothing more than pompous know-it-alls looking to stroke their own egos.

Dalar led his mount around to the back where the stable sat under a lone, withered willow tree. He tethered the mechanical beast to a sturdy metal hook, reached under its jaw line and flicked the power switch. The azure glow of the cortex dimmed to nothing as the power source turned off.

Stretching his back and legs as he departed the stable, Dalar let his steps lead him round the far side of the wilted willow tree.

For years, Dalar thought the lonely sentinel had developed an arborial sickness causing it to lose its leaves due to the sprawling city; however, upon his ascension into the esteemed ranks of the High Scholars, he quickly learnt otherwise. The Chief Scholar of the time, Benjamin R. Riley, had revealed to Dalar there was a hidden entrance located in the trunk of the tree, marked only by three misshapen blemishes on the trunk’s rough exterior. Now, Dalar pressed each of the blemishes in the appropriate order, and spoke a simple word of command. The trunk gave way to a small opening, which led to a descending spiral staircase of the finest marble. Looking about to ensure there were no prying eyes, Dalar retreated into the bowels of the lonely tree.

He took the stairs two at a time, letting his feet guide him in the soft glow of everflame lanterns, which sat in small crevaces along the descending wall. Dalar soon came to stand at the base of the stairs in a large, marbled hall. The room was spacious, and bare, save for a cast iron bench along the far wall. In his early days as High Scholar, Dalar had spent many afternoons relaxing on the bench with the latest piece of praised literature.

Several minutes passed as he navigated the winding passages of the lowest level of the Libatorium. Soon enough, and after several more flights of twisting stairs, Dalar found himself standing in the Hall of Knowledge.

If one were to enter the Libatorium by normal means, they would find themselves in the wide space known as the Hall of Knowledge. The floor was made of a hardened jadestone from the furthest reaches of the Far East. Woven into the sparkling jade floor were scenes of airships, flying in the heavens, all depicted with varying colours of alabaster shells, pearl and topaz. To either wing of the hall were descending stairs of maple, stained in a dark cocoa varnish used most commonly in southern Grubbenbrut.