12 - Coming full circle
Dearest Anons,
In five days (on May 8, 2011) this meme will have existed for a whole year.
It is an extraordinary achievement, your extraordinary achievement, to have kept this going well and alive for so long. With thousands of fics and comments, this meme is one of (if not the) most amazing thing I've ever come across. Not only the amount of fic ( Read more... )
In five days (on May 8, 2011) this meme will have existed for a whole year.
It is an extraordinary achievement, your extraordinary achievement, to have kept this going well and alive for so long. With thousands of fics and comments, this meme is one of (if not the) most amazing thing I've ever come across. Not only the amount of fic ( Read more... )
Sequel to Hattie and the Plague of Alchemists. Tony, Peter and Alastair have struck gold and are setting out through uncharted, pirate-infested air to mine it for all it is worth. Meanwhile, Gordon has reached the end of his tether and turns to the underground for help.
Features the OT4 + John Prescott with cameos from Charlie, Robin Cook and Paddy, and maybe more if I'm struck by inspiration/suggestions.
This one’s definitely heading to be longer than Plague and probably longer than Integral (I’m projecting 40-50 parts) and I’m also juggling a few different storylines while being unsure as to how exactly they’re going to be resolved. I’ve also had to pump it with a few (hopefully inoffensive) OCs, as I can’t think of RL equivalents to take the roles. To the anon who was unhappy about Peter not having standards - sorry, it gets worse, but on the plus side, he’s about a 1 on the woobie scale.
I’m trying to keeping a few chapters ahead of myself, and updates will be sluggish this side of exams. I was going to wait until they were over, but I thought that it would be better to post it on the old prompt post rather than mess up the new one.
Oh Lord, this is also coincidentally my 100th fic here. That's a triumph about as belated as they come.
*sings*
I made my own machine
Yes, we're building steam...
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Gordon’s pen rested on the page and a drop of ink oozed from the nib, blotching the paper. He continued scrawling. His fingers were stained.
It has been eight months now since Blair claimed the inheritance and not a waking minute passes when I am not distracted by the injustice of the decision. I am not a bitter man-
Was that true? He paused, peaked eyebrows forming into a deep crease. A curl of hair drooped onto his forehead and he shoved it away, dipping the nib into the inkwell. When it returned to his page, the words were forming more fluidly.
-however, for any human being to be expected to lay prostrate as a lifetime’s worth of work is torn away from under their fingers... it defies integrity. I will refuse to be brushed aside, and will continue John’s work without him, and will do my upmost best to block Blair’s distracting presence from my mind. He spends his working week in Sky City, but when he slips his ill-deserved key in the lock and returns for the occasional weekend, it is impossible to work without the thought of that man playing on my mind. He seeps under my skin like a virus and when he departs for the city, the cornflower of his eyes remain burnt into my retinas-
Gordon halted and his gaze skidded back across the page. He gave a deep sigh and blotted out the last letter.
-and his voice echoes in my skull like a chorus of Frogs. I loathe the man. I detest his recklessness and his dismissive attitude towards Hattie and the collection. I hate his tasselled waistcoats and the stupid curled toes of his boots. I want to fold his flapping ears back to his head and attach leaden weights to the corners of his lips until his grin is inverted into some expression resembling prudence.
Gordon double-underlined ‘prudence’ and slammed his log shut, disgusted with himself for allowing the thought of the man to occupy him for so long. He closed the lock on the side of the leather-bound book and slipped it into the bureau, retrieving a crumpled chart from the drawer. He exhaled slowly and worked along the rows of numbers. Soon his nib began scratching again, and the alligator grin was washed away with a flood of calculations.
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Gordon, it's called a man-crush.
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As Tony stood before the greenhouses and pulled a watch from his waistcoat pocket, one small pot tumbled to the ground and scuttled away past his ankles and dived into a compost heap. He ignored them as a further two pots flipped themselves over and hurried away, and made his way to the door. He exerted a gentle pressure, and it swung open easily.
It was murky inside; the daylight was filtered out and the air was heavy with the earthy, overpowering perfume of decaying vegetation and fertiliser. Every glass pane was flecked with mud, and Tony wondered if they had always been that dark syrup colour, or if it was just years of grime having built up to create an impression of stained glass. The narrow panes were supported with a complex lattice of metal struts.
Bzzzzzzzz.
Tony jumped and his eyes darted around. There was another noise, and this time he could make out the enormous silhouette of a dragonfly against the glass - surely as large as a hawk, its spindly body shuffling against the grimy surface. It took off again and Tony breathed a sigh of relief.
He pushed between the stacks of pots and the collection of nude statues, then through a disintegrating arch into the main body of the greenhouse. Vast plants stretched up to the dome and tangled in the brass straits. Their bodies were black as deadwood, and their long tendrils grew into every nook and cranny, like dark, spindly squid, splattered out across the walls. Pods hung from the tendrils, and bright orange seeds still nestled inside. Tony inspected them with interest, poking them with a finger wrapped in a handkerchief. He paced deeper into the greenhouse. Plants swayed as he passed them, some rooted in giant pots, others set in wooden boxes stuffed with compost, a few in little glass jars and some hanging from the ceiling, seemingly growing from thin air.
“Help!”
Tony froze and his nostrils flared. Then the voice came again.
“Help me! Whoever you are, I’m trapped!” Following the squeak of the voice, Tony stumbled around a handsome sundial, ears pricked for sound. He heard the shout once more, and trampled over a spray of nozomi, at last reaching the far end of the greenhouse. Reaching up to the dome of the ceiling was an enormous aviary, shaped like a bird cage with spindly gold bars, groaning under the weight of creepers that had grown there. Tony stared upwards, looking out for a flash of feathers, but there seemed to be no movement but for that of the flora. Then there was a crash and a shudder of the bars under his fingers. He peered down at the ground.
A miniscule figure was standing on the paved ground, pressed against the bars. He had a bushy beard and a slightly squashed face, like a walnut. He wore a bright blue tunic and a scarlet pointed hat that just reached Tony’s knees. He held a tiny fishing rod in his hands. Tony crouched and examined the creature.
“What -who are you?”
“Cook-a-Robin. Who are you?”
“Anthony Charles Lynton Blair. Just call me Tony. I... inherited this estate on my uncle’s death.”
“Huh,” the gnome frowned. He reached onto the tips of his toes and inspected Tony’s face. “You? I’ve never seen you before. Never mind, if you’re my master, you’ll have to do. You need to help me. I’m trapped.”
“Why?” Tony asked. “Who put you here?”
“Your damned uncle, John Smith, and his accomplice, Dr Brown,” the gnome replied, straightening his hat angrily. “They didn’t want me to roam free in the grounds and they locked me in here with nothing but a platter of rainwater to fish in. I’ve been eating algae ever since.”
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“Not at all,” Cook-a-Robin snickered, sticking out his bearded chin. “But I want to be free to fish and wander and chase away pesky pheasants and herons as it were my job to do before my incarceration.”
“Would Gordon be angry if I free you?”
“Perhaps,” the gnome said carefully, putting emphasis on both syllables of the word. “But how can I fulfil my job locked away?” Tony nodded and got to his feet, feeling for the latch of the aviary door.
“There is a courtyard not far from here, and Dr Brown’s study looks down on it,” he said. “And in that courtyard is a crystal wishing pool, sunken into the ground. It glitters with copper coins and is filled with exotic ornamental carp.”
“Carp, you say?” Cook-a-Robin licked the lop-sided corner of his lips.
“Yes. But you mustn’t let Dr Brown catch you fishing there or he’ll hang you by the ankles from the weathervane for a fortnight.”
“Very well, very well! I won’t let him catch me!” The door sprung open and the gnome tumbled out, dusting down his tunic. He peered around, gave Tony a short salute and disappeared into the flora. Tony leaned back against a flowerpot and stared up at the domed ceiling, held with the spiderweb of straits and bolts. Another dragonfly buzzed at the roof and disappeared again like a shadow puppet, wings rattling for an instant against the glass.
“OUCH!”
Something enormous had caught his left arm in a vice-like grip and was crushing it with brute force. He tugged and pulled, but couldn’t work himself free. Swinging round, he found himself face-to-face with a monstrous Venus fly-trap, one fanged mouthpart jammed shut around his shirtsleeve. Its dark tendrils were waving furiously, and it seemed to be hissing from the heart of the flowerpot.
“Geroff! I’m master of Rosse Hall! I own you!” He strained against the hold, pulling with all his strength, but the flowerpot was just too huge and heavy to tip. His desperate fingers found something rough and hard, and closed around it. A rake. He swung it, and the prongs sunk into tissue. The plant screeched and he felt the grip slip for half a second. He dragged the rake downwards, shredding fibres from the body of the plant. It went limp, and he fell to the cool paving. The rake was still hanging from the fly-trap and its tendrils were flailing. Tony gathered his breaths back and clambered to his feet. He waggled a finger at the fly-trap.
“Serves you right.” He untangled the tassels that hung from the hem of his mustard yellow waistcoat, and paced away, careful to keep a safe distance from the largest pots.
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Roth was an elderly gentleman with a taste for every one of life’s idle pleasures. His cream day jacket was stretched over his globular stomach, and he rather resembled a frilly blancmange with a carrot hairpiece set jauntily on his pate. His face was red with port and he tapped his fingers on the waistband of his trousers to the hum of the gramophone, mounted on the spindly table before him.
A tiny boy in a scarlet waistcoat hurried past him, giggling, golf club resting on his shoulder. He was closely followed by his governess, arms outstretched.
“Mr Roth, sir!” the governess said, skidding to an ungainly halt before her master. “Your youngest grandson has been sending your best champagne flutes flying from the deck with that stolen golf club.” Roth chuckled, and the governess’ lips pursed with displeasure.
“Little blighter. Fetch him some of the cheaper ones then. A few from the old Boulette collection should do.” The governess nodded and slipped away with a tweak of her apron. Roth sighed and settled back, idly watching his guests. Sitting around a small chess table, he spied three very familiar faces and waved.
*
“Granny, darling. Roth’s waving at you.”
“So he is, Peter.” Carla raised a gloved hand and twirled it back at Roth. Peter hooked one arm around Robinson’s neck to steady himself and blew a kiss.
He was balanced in the stout man’s lap to save the servants the bother of fetching another chair. His dark hair had been viciously swept back and a pair of tea shades rested on the bridge of his nose. Four inches of plum silk flashed below the leg of his trousers and his toe rotated in a small circle, one leg crossed over the other. A steady arm wrapped around his waist as he leant forwards to slide the remaining black bishop across the board.
“Will you be dancing this evening?”
“Oh, you know that nothing will stop me dancing. Would you do me the honour of being my partner for tonight?” Peter asked. Carla coloured beneath her powder and reached for her gilded snuff box.
“It would be my pleasure.”
“You never have been able to resist a dance, have you?” Robinson chuckled, bouncing him affectionately on his lap. Peter straightened his neckerchief with perfect dignity and turned down the snuff.
“Never. I am considering throwing a ball myself, though of course I couldn’t rival the glamour of Roth’s little get-togethers. It would be a quieter affair with only a few dozen guests.”
“Where would you hold it? Not on that dirgible of Blair’s?”
“No. It’s got very little open space. I’d borrow a room in his estate. Rosse Hall. There is one grand room which I believe was once a ballroom, only now it’s full of cases of dead insects and half-assembled machinery and the like. I’m sure Tony would be happy for me to move it all and make some space. Oh. Check.”
“How shame-making! I am a silly old thing,” she tittered, nudging her queen to defend her king. She readjusted her rope of pearls and gazed up at Peter, who flashed a feline smile.
“Not at all, darling; nobody would have seen that coming,” he said, gazing at the pieces and pushing his pawn to the end of the board, replacing it with a rook. “I’m just too good a player.”
“And a little too arrogant for your own good too,” Robinson observed, squeezing Peter as Carla swept her queen across the board and captured his last knight. Peter stared at the chequered board in disbelief. Carla could put him in check within a few well-executed moves. He slipped from Robinson’s lap and straightened his jacket.
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“Peter. Are you having a bloody splendid time or not?”
“I am.”
“Will you be dancing tonight? I have the quaintest troupe of minstrels on board, and they have promised to perform the musical saw for us.”
“What a treat,” he replied. “I will be there, with Carla.”
“Delighted,” Roth turned a dial on the gramophone, and the breathy pa-pa-hmmm of the female chorus swelled. He beckoned Peter with a crooked finger, and Peter shuffled in flush to the other man, folding his glasses away into a pocket. Roth leaned to whisper into his ear. “Now Peter, I’ve got a surprise for you.”
“How wonderful. Could it be a Horatio Pectrispec pocket watch?” Roth frowned.
“Why would I give you another Pectrispec? No, this is far more exciting. Here. I spy with my little eye... one man sitting on a wealth of trading opportunity.”
“Where?” Peter replied. “On board?” Roth nodded and reached down to the leg of his recliner, grabbing a leather case and pulling a small pair of brass binoculars out. He handed them to Peter, who raised them to his eyes and peered across the deck.
“Do you see the man in the crumpled suit standing next to my daughter? He has a grey beard.”
“Yes. He looks like some sort of lizard.”
“His name is Ellswater, and he has returned to my company after nearly a decade of travelling. I thought he was dead as they come. But while on his adventures, he discovered a mine bursting full with precious metal and is said to be on the lookout for a trading partner to co-operate with import and extraction, as he has no airship of his own, only a humble balloon which is worn down to scraps after his voyages. He can’t yet afford to set up a factory either, but he’s sitting on a literal mine of wealth.”
“A mine... what sort of mine?” Roth leaned forward and whispered into Peter’s ear, a smile cracking along his wrinkled lips.
“Gold. And yet.. he hasn’t two sequins to rub together.” Peter lowered the binoculars and gazed at Roth with an unreadable expression.
“Would he be persuaded with...?”
“No, Peter, he wouldn’t. He’s an honourable man, if I remember him well enough. Try using the conventional charm, get talking with the man and earn his confidence; see what you can do for him. And perhaps you’ll forge yourself a profitable partnership.”
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The Solaris was never read anywhere but in public; picked up carelessly on a table in a saloon or flicked through while riding the Griddle Railway. Those who paid their one sequin for the Solaris were rightly treated with suspicion.
The Chainmail was printed entirely in capital letters, ever since the lower case typewriter keys were thrown out by the editor, who decided that the newspaper needed to pack a tougher punch. It was read largely by housewives, the angry unemployed and the senile elderly, and bubbled with hatred towards the lower city, the upper city, the financiers, the sooty-faced labourers, the weather and the goats from foreign parts that had the nerve to take up employment in Sky City.
The Ding-Dong was bought largely by those in the lower city and its articles were written entirely by squirrels breaking open fortune cookies imported from the Orient and pasting the messages and gags together into three hundred word segments, which were subsequently printed around large ink drawings of debutantes in daring stoles or bustles. The Radar, which gave a convincing impression of being lower-city friendly, was edited more fiercely, and its offices were located at the end of Stobbart Street.
Alastair Campbell’s office was one floor below ground, and the latticed windows were slanted, peering out to the cobblestone street above. The paved floor was dusty, and a small fire burnt beneath a polished stone mantelpiece. A stuffed tomcat sat at the hearth with a glassy stare and one wall was covered entirely with a handsome skeleton clock and a large glass notice case, stuffed full with newspaper clippings, addresses and a list of names, each written in angry capitals.
Nailed to the desk was a gold plate engraved with Alastair’s name, in case some upstart forgot whose office they were in while sat in the low-seated stool on the wrong side of the desk. The surface was hidden completely under piles of papers.
The clock struck nine and Alastair set down the handwritten draft, lips a firm line. He was not impressed, and wondered for a moment if bringing him this story was some kind of test of the extent of his temper.
Alastair wheeled the fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter and his fingers hovered over the keys. He began to type:
THERE WILL BE NO MORE UNSUBSTANTIATED FILTH WRITTEN CONCERNING THE PERSONAL WEAKNESSES OF MR A.C.L. BLAIR BY ANY PERSON AT THE RADAR. IF I DISCOVER THAT ONE SINGLE MISERABLE, SCUM-SCRAPING-
Too much. He ripped the paper out and impaled it on the short spike poking out above the floods of paper. The solution was simple. He pushed out his chair and scrunched up the inflammatory draft, tossing it in the fireplace. The paper curled into cinders, swallowed by the flames. If some squirt wanted to write damaging articles about Blair, they should transfer to the Chainmail. There was a knock at his door and he prodded the paper right into the fire, slipping back into his seat before calling out.
“Come in.”
A young man wearing an enormous pair of spectacles and a bow-tie tip-toed through the doorway, closing it gently behind him. He swallowed before addressing Alastair.
“Mr Campbell. The typists need those two articles from you now.”
“Of course, Ernest,” Alastair tossed yesterday’s paper into the basket next to his desk and pulled together the heavily annotated pages, folding over the corner to hold them. “That’s the leading story there. Hand it to the girls with no further editing.”
“Thank you, sir. And how about Percy’s Blair article...?”
“What Blair story?” Alastair asked dangerously, eyebrows knitting together. One fingertip began tracing the tip of his metal spike. The young man drew back, eyes wide behind thick glass.
“C-can’t remember. Perhaps there wasn’t one. Good evening, sir.”
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Though the city was built up to the sky, the last streaks of apricot sunset still trickled between the structures and gleamed back from the shop windows. Tony could hear the rumbling of wheels, the clatter of hooves, and footsteps on the suspended walkways criss-crossing above his head, the running of water far below his feet. Steam rose in spiralling plumes from the gutter, choked up from the lungs of the lower city factories.
Tony stopped at the street corner, snatching his watch from his waistcoat. The case flipped open, and he gazed at the twitching golden hands inside. The train wasn’t due for another half an hour. He slipped his watch away and looked up, instantly meeting the eager eye of a man in a floppy mauve bow tie.
“Could I interest you in prune and pumpkin pie, sir? Fresh from the fire at Heddy’s Bakery, 148 Limabello Road and only three sequins a slice.” Tony forced a grin and wrapped his fingers round the handle of his trunk.
“Ah. No. No, thank you.”
“Oh, please sir!” the vender cried imploring. “If I don’t sell every crumb of pie by midnight, Mrs Heddy will force me to eat it all myself.”
“Look, I’m sorry, but you’re not selling it to me,” Tony explained, peeling the man’s hands from his sleeve. He glanced around, and his eyes fell on the closest shop - the sweetshop at the corner. “You’ve fallen upon me at a very bad time. I was about to buy some-ehhh... clementine drops for my sister.”
“Buy her some pie instead,” the vender said, thrusting the tray forwards again. “Crusty and fruity and fresh.”
“No. Good evening.” He lifted up his trunk and hurried into the shop. The door closed behind him with a tinkling of bells. It was cool and dim inside - the latticed windows let in little light, the ceiling was curved and painted with pleasant mint humbug stripes. The shelves were stacked to the ceiling with glass bottles full of confectionery of every kind. Crystallised pineapple and lemon curd moons, sugar snouts, raspberry snaps, liquorice maggots, cocoa moth balls and boar truffles...
“May I help you, Mr Blair?” The little curtain at the back of the shop shifted, and a slug slithered out. He wore a purple cravat and as he slopped up onto the stool behind the counter, he removed a monocle. His eyestalks stretched out to inspect Tony, checking over his bulging trunk and gaudy waistcoat. He spoke in a gravelly voice, dragging syllables into throaty ‘behhhs’. “Are human beings colour blind?”
“I think I’ll ignore that,” Tony said, grasping his lapels. “And how do you know my name?”
“I read the newspapers. Berrrp.”
“Oh, well,” Tony said, trying not to sound too flattered. “That’s jolly nice of you. Do you want me to carve my initials into something for you?”
“Why would I want you to do that?”
“To prove that I was here,” Tony grinned.“It-it was a gag.” The slug’s eyestalks tangled in confusion.
“I am not interested in your initials. I am a humble mollusc with an ever-growing family to provide for. I only follow, with a degree of disinterest, your fortunes as a merchant,” the slug’s tone was dry. “We wait to see what profitable agreements you can secureeebeerp.” Tony stroked his nose.
“I have so much planned.”
“I will read about it and wonder when you finally return to Sky City with something of worth. That is if your goods aren’t stolen in the sky. Heh... heh... heh...”
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“Oh,” the slug smirked. “Nothing. What did you want to buy?” The slug rested his chin on the counter. Tony glanced around the shop awkwardly, trying to ignore the unappetising trail of slime leaking out from beneath the slug’s pulsating body and onto the glass of the counter. Beneath the counter was a display of marzipan trains for young boys. Tony backed away, leaning on his trunk.
“I wasn’t actually going to buy anything,” he confessed. “I only came in to escape from the vender outside. It is jolly nice in here though. I’ll have to recommend it.”
“That’s selfish,” the slug said, heaving further up onto the counter, which creaked under his weight.
“Oh. Sorry. Anyway, I think he’s gone now.” Tony made for the door, but was stopped by the slug, who called out:
“You can’t leave without buying anything, or I’ll pull this lever and empty the bucket of slime on you when you skip through the doorway.” Just as the slug promised, sitting above the doorway was a small silver bucket, balanced precariously on a wire mesh.
Outwitted by an overgrown mollusc.
“Goddamnit. Okay. I’ll take an ounce of sherbet termites,” Tony said.
“Only an ounce? Buy six ounces and I’ll give you a rock gobstopper for just five sequins.”
“What’s a rock gobstopper?”
“It’s a rock. In the shape of a gobstopper. Lasts foreverrrp.”
“No. I’ll just take the sherbet termites, thanks.” He watched with mild revulsion as the slug oozed up the wall to collect the glass bottle and carefully measured out the termites into a brown paper bag. He rolled up the corners and pushed it across the counter to Tony, who handed the slug a few copper coins from his pocket. He stuffed the termites in his pocket and hurried out of the shop with his trunk as quickly as possible, hearing the splat of the bucket of slime against the floor the moment he was out of the door.
What cheek.
Thankfully, the vender was nowhere to be seen. Tony rolled his trunk lifted up his trunk and headed for the spiralling staircase that led up to the platform, pausing to adjust the laces of his boot and snatch an abandoned copy of the Solaris from the pavement, skimming over the front page; Clarissa Vernon-Sawyer had married her fifth husband, Major’s cargo dirigible had been unsuccessfully attacked by air pirates and a carnivorous bovine creature was roaming free in the country.
Well, that wasn’t true. He remembered Alastair complaining about it, throwing his hat across the room in frustration. Baldwin from the Chimes drank straight from a barrel of gooseberry mead at his sister’s wedding in Little Blanefield, and ended up trying to ride a cow back to the reception. He was so embarrassed the next morning he made up some story about the cow trying to eat him, and then someone from the Chainmail overheard him, put it on their front page and sold like hot buns, spreading to the rest of the papers soon after. This was just, as Alastair had said, how journalism works.
Clearing his throat, he rose to his feet and grabbed the spindly banister, hoisting his luggage to the station.
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Children who were clever enough to earn scholarships may escape to the dreaming spires and towers of the upper city, but most were not so lucky. There were no less than three dozen workhouses in the lower city where young children were paid for their labour in matchsticks, dried peas and titbits of cured meat. As they grew into adulthood, those who didn’t turn to the seedy underground for dirty money could find long-term employment in the factories that dominated the lower cities. Wheels turned within towering walls and chimneys coughed steam, which formed a hazy, hanging cloud, gradually dispersing up into the upper city.
Philippe Pennyway was born in the country, and first became part of Sky City when he moved into the Academy to study the population explosion of the ‘sooty lace’ silkworm in urban areas. He found that children from the lower city were cheap to employ, and did an efficient job of categorising silkworms sixteen hours a day for his study. He realised that this labour was being put to waste in the disorderly lower city where people strayed from job to job each day, on Monday a chimney sweep, on Tuesday a shoe-shiner.
He invested a fortune from his inheritance in building a factory, and soon enough, the lower city cretins flocked for secure employment. Within a year, he had become a successful textiles merchant and never looked back at the Academy.
Years later Pennyway was found dead, (a giant toothed silkworm having climbed through his ear canal into his brain and devoured it), but his factory still stands. Towers belted out steam and smoke, crates of embroided silk flocked from the gates to the market and the Pennyway workers all wore rough cotton overalls.
The Central Clock Tower had been derelict since clockwork replaced the ancient bell-ringer and his hour glass. Cogs and gears turned, and it struck midnight.
“Bargh.”
John Prescott stood a short distance from the wrought iron gates of the Pennyway factory, his back turned defiantly to employment. John was a large man. His head melted right into his massive neck, his mouth was a lipless gash and his nose a brick-tough lump. His eyes were wide-set and bags wobbled beneath them when he was angry, which was far too often to be good for his weak heart.
However large a jacket he wore, it always stretched over his shoulders. His belly hung far over his thick leather belt. He was slightly bow-legged and his feet were always a shoulder width apart, aggressive and ready.
He had abandoned his old work wrapping bars of soap in brown paper for Reddican’s Delights long ago, and had been stumbling blindly through a series of jobs ever since. Having been thrown out in disgrace from his last occupation for stealing half-baked raisin bread from the oven, he had decided to follow an old childhood dream. Memories of a happy afternoon on the coast; the colour and the excitement of a Punch and Judy show seen as a boy of five had never left him.
The puppets and painted theatre cost him his last hundred sequins; he couldn’t afford to hire himself a bottler or a wagon unless he miraculously found more business, and he was far too proud to admit that he made a terrible Punch and Judy professor. Hearing the eleventh strike, he grunted again.
“Bargh.”
There couldn’t have been more than about thirty sequins tossed into his soaking cap over the day. Perhaps it wasn’t enough for a night in a warm bed, but it would pay for a hearty breakfast the next morning. He wrenched his jacket from the nail hammered into the back of the puppet theatre, tearing the threadbare lining, and shrugged it on.
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John could feel the icy chill of water running over the toes of his shoes as he trudged away from the Pennyway factory. He could hear the screeching of gates and a babble of voices as the workers were released after a long day of pinching silkworms. He walked on, grinding his teeth. A gentle whistle caught his attention. A woman was leaning against the stained windows of a saloon, one bootied ankle winking from the hem of her dress. In the yellow light of the lantern hanging from the sign, her ringlets were glinting like woven copper and her lips were painted that telltale scarlet. John ground to a stop.
“Whatcha doing out and round about and in around here, luv?” he said, puffing out his chest, his chin disappearing into his neck. The woman stretched one hand up and let it fall down to rest on the back of her head, winking playfully.
“I’m waiting for a man.”
“Oh yeah? Any man in part... any man in particular?”
“One with two hundred and forty sequins in his pocket,” she said, holding out a set of fingers heavy with tin jewellery.
“Fuckin’ hell, that’s a bit steep for some lippy-red tart like you.” John hoiked the burden higher up his back and stomped away, leaving the young woman looking affronted. As she turned to simper at the men from the factory, John peered over his shoulder and bellowed back at her. “You might do better for yourself to knock a two hundred off the tag or such or the like!” He chuckled at his remark and made a left turn into a narrower street where he could spend the night.
He eventually stopped in an alley behind a quieter saloon, the tinkling of the toy piano muffled by walls and the running of water. The drain was dripping filth into the gutter, but he was thick-skinned enough to cope with the damp. He propped up his precious equipment against the leaking wall and slowly set his bulk down between two barrels. His jacket doubled as a blanket and his head sunk into his popped collar as drowsiness swept over him.
A scrap of newspaper fluttered from beneath a barrel, caught. He stared at it sleepily, the printed words blurring into an inky blob. There was one grainy, rain-blotched photograph on a torn page that stared up at him. A white grin and clever eyes. John’s eyelids were heavy with sleep, and he shoved the newspaper out of sight. A name found its way onto his tongue.
“You weasel. Tony.”
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A dusty maze of storerooms piled to the ceiling with crates and barrels was interspersed with tiny offices, which were in turn packed with overflowing cabinets and too-small desks. The staircase ran up the body of the tower and was tightly coiled. Visitors would never fail to get their feet stuck between the steps, and the handrail was worn smooth. The highest floor was by far the neatest, and Tony’s office faced the street. A squashy leather sofa swallowed papers and trinkets, and a bookcase covered an entire wall, heavy with fat tomes he had never read, but wanted visitors to be impressed by.
Tony stared down at the street from the cushioned window seat with his shirtsleeves rolled back, idly plucking at a string of his ukulele. A sample crate of boiled sweets was balanced on the seat next to him.
“I can’t believe we’re considering trading these things,” Tony said, throwing a nasty glance at the sweets. “There’s no demand for confectionary at all.”
“Send it back. Say you that you have no interest putting our money in their sugary fingers.”
“I suppose there is some attraction in trading inexpensive confectionary. But it isn’t a break-in to big business for us. We need to think on a grander scale.”
“It’s what I’ve been saying for a long time.”
“It’s a relief to have you back,” Tony smiled. “I really do need you on board. You appreciate that, don’t you?”
“Sometimes,” Peter replied. He shifted a pile of papers across the desk and dipped his pen into the inkwell. For a minute, the only sound in the room was the scratching of the nib against paper as Peter stacked the numbers into columns and began the mechanical job of summing them. He pushed beads across the rows of the abacus thoughtfully. “Did you receive my telegram?”
“I don’t know. Probably. There was so much mail being delivered, I just left it for Grimsley to go through for me and he told me that nothing would be of interest. It must have been a very boring telegram.”
“Grimsley can’t read. Why did you let him sort the post?”
“Don’t be so bossy,” Tony said, slumping into his chair on the other side of the desk and pushing a clean sheet of letter paper at Peter. “I thought that delegating him some responsibility would be a good experience.”
“You can’t let the incompetent make important decisions independently of us!”
“Calm down, Peter, I’m sure it wasn’t that important, or you would have ended your little party to deliver the message personally. What did your damned telegram say, anyhow?”
“I sent it when I returned to the surface because it was essential for me to remain in the company of Roth’s guests,” Peter sighed. “While I was still in the clouds, Roth was kind enough to point out a certain guest to me, and suggested that it may be worthwhile to make his acquaintance. So I introduced myself. The man’s name is Edwig J. Ellswater, and he’s snoozing on a goldmine.” Tony crooked an eyebrow suspicious. Peter held up his hands. “He’s an Englishman, but has spent so long on his voyage that he has few contacts left in Sky City. He’s troubled.”
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“If we play our deck effectively, we could have a groundbreaking deal on the table within a month.”
“What would he got waiting for us to exploit? Steel? We could make a fortune as steel merchants. Or we could be forever in demand if we could wrangle a deal to mine coal...”
“No. Not steel and not coal. Something far more precious and rare.” Peter reached into his waistcoat pocket and lifted a small object out, slipping it onto his middle finger. He waved it at Tony, and something brilliant caught the light. Tony snatched his hand and stared.
“Oh, goodness...”
“When I say a goldmine, I mean a goldmine in every sense. While on his voyage, he was running low on coal and stopped at a floating island that seemed derelict but for a small village by the coast. While the locals suggested that he leave quickly, he explored further, climbing up to the caves beyond the village...”
“You’re telling me,” Tony breathed. “That there’s an unmolested goldmine floating in the atmosphere right now, and nobody else knows about it?”
“That is precisely what he hinted to me, though we should be sceptical,” Peter was twisting the ring on his finger now, and was speaking more fluently. “He isn’t all too keen to tell many people, should the word spread and the search begin and he be left with nothing... but he trusts me, from what I can tell, and he wants to secure a good deal. He needs some means of transport; he needs a channel for trade that he can trust not to... exploit him. We know our shares of dishonest merchants and Wiggy isn’t stupid.”
“And?”
“And I have his current address. He’s staying in the city with his sister for the next couple of months. I owe him a reduced sum of money for this ring and so he’s expecting me to call.”
“Would he be happy to be paid a visit from a second eager merchant?”
“Whether he’s happy or not, I expect that it’s going to happen, isn’t it?” Peter’s thin lips curved into a smile as he lifted his ring to the light.
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“Hello Tony.”
Tony yelped. The lamps were already burning, and a man was standing in front of his bed, holding a covered bird cage in his hands. A man in a poorly tailored suit with black hair and heavy features, one glass eye spinning slowly in its cage.
“Gordon,” Tony edged into the room, closing the door behind him. “I’m not sure if you noticed this but; I keep my door securely locked.”
“And I had a copy of your key made,” Gordon said smugly, swinging the key on the end of the narrow rope before shoving it back into his pocket. Tony stared.
“Any reason why you chose to drop in without informing me of it first? I am an obliging chap, and I wouldn’t have said no.”
“I have a few bones to pick with you.” Gordon didn’t move from his spot as Tony opened his wardrobe and hung up his waistcoat, freeing the upper buttons of his shirt. Inches of pink skin flashed beneath stiff ruffles and Gordon continued to watch the striped wallpaper in front of him.
“Fine. Fine,” Tony said, emptying his pockets and finding a crumpled paper bag. “Would you like a sherbet termite? They’re disgusting, but it’s my little present, just for you.”
“Listen here, Tony. You may be the master of Rosse Hall as far as paperwork goes, but I will not have you arriving and trampling on your uncle’s legacy, desecrating his lifelong work.”
“I’ve been as responsible as a duck. Really, Gordon, I leave the estate to you five days a week. It’s hardly my own space, and you know the hallowed halls a thousand times better than I do.”
“Whether you drop by once a week or once a day, the damage you manage to cause is irreversible,” Gordon hissed. “You know what I’m talking about this time.”
“I don’t,” Tony’s hands latched onto his belt. Gordon rested the bird cage on the bed and whipped away the cover. A tiny, bearded figure was trapped inside, mummified with rope from shoulder to toe. A bandage was wrapped over his mouth and as he caught sight of Tony, he began to squeak.
“Mm mm!”
“Shut up!” Gordon slammed the bars of the cage, and the gnome fell grudgingly silent, glaring up at its captor. “Do you know what this is?”
“That’s Cook-A-Robin,” Tony said. “Hello there, little chap.”
“You released him from his cage in the greenhouses!”
“I did,” Tony said. “It was jolly unfair to keep him locked up like that, having only algae to eat.” Cook-A-Robin nodded furiously, and Gordon rattled the cage.
“You imbecile! You fell for his begging didn’t you? Didn’t stop to wonder why we had locked him up in a cage, hm?”
“I...”
“We cast him away to the greenhouses,” Gordon motored on. “Because when he was a free garden gnome, he needlessly uprooted vegetables and stuffed them into the drains, causing the water supply to become contaminated. Having it fixed was costly and-”
“You can forgive him that, can’t you?” Tony said. “I’m sure it was a mistake.”
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“Very well. So... what do you suggest that I do about my silly little mistake? It was hardly my fault, Gordon... can’t you just put Cook-A-Robin back in his greenhouse?” The gnome made a squeak of protest.
“I haven’t finished yet,” Gordon replied, jaws grinding. He banged the top of the cage with his fist, and the gnome stopped squealing. “While I was waiting for you to return, I took the liberty of checking through your desk.”
“Gordon!” Tony gasped. “That’s private!”
“Huh, not any longer. I found a set of invitations, tied up in a red ribbon and fresh off the press, by the looks of them.”
“I don’t see why that’s a problem, Gordon,” Tony said. One hand was curled around his belt buckle, and his knuckles were beginning to whiten. Who did Gordon think he was, breaking into his home and proceeding to rifle through his personal belongings and then insult him?
“You and your... associates,” Gordon said. “Have been planning to throw some sort of orgy in Rosse Hall. I am not going to allow a drink-sodden huddle of worms to run about and ruin the place. It’s disrespectful. I’ll break both your arms and snap Mandelson’s scrawny neck before I allow men like van Murdoch to shit all over the sacred-”
“It wasn’t me. It was Peter’s idea. Look - you’re overreacting. And Rupert wasn’t so much as invited, for goodness sake.”
“How about Roth, huh?”
“Yes, he’s an old friend of Peter’s. His son and daughter are invited too.”
“And how about De Ripaska?”
“I-I have never met him in my life.” Tony glared at Gordon, his face scarlet. “You’re being paranoid. Oh - unless - you aren’t bitter about not being issued an invite are you? Because you’d be welcome to join us, and Peter has booked a troupe of close harmony myna birds that I know you’d find really-”
“-I don’t give a rat’s tail for Mandelson’s ridiculous myna birds, and there will be no such orgy. I’m banning it. Any invitations that you may have already sent out, you will just have to chase down and cancel,” Gordon threw the cover back over the bird cage. He hoisted it up and set it atop Tony’s dresser, stepping back. “What do you say to that?”
“I don’t give a damn. Rosse Hall is mine, and I will use it as I please. What’s more,” Tony said, breathless with irritation. “What’s more is that I’m forbidding you from stepping foot in the estate for the next month. Peter will have his ball, he’s going to shift your stupid machinery and insect collection to do so, and you won’t stop us having a wonderful time. Good evening, Gordon.”
Throwing a final glance at the covered cage and ignoring Tony, Gordon shoved his bowler hat onto his curly head and slunk awkwardly out of the door, cogs and gears turning furiously in his skull.
And then, it came to him.
As the lock clicked behind him, and he began his descent down the staircase, a strange half-smile formed across Gordon’s lips.
And that's all for my first update. I know there's not much here ATM. I'm actually on chapter 17, but I've found that I need to be several chapters ahead to give myself space to keep editing and making it coherant. Plus I need a buffer during exams... I hope that's alright. A note is that Dodrago is pronounced do-dray-go, and Rosse as ross-ee. You know. Just in case you were wondering.
*shuffles away staring at feet*
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