Disclaimers in Chapter One
Ardsley Wooster stared at the bank of gauges, lights, switches and dials and tried very hard not to panic.
He'd been left in charge of yet another one of Gil's projects while his 'master' was called away to talk to the Baron. From the look on Gil's face when Dolokhov, the Baron's amanuensis, had called him away, it wasn't going to be a pleasant conversation. Then again, in the long months since he'd arrived and since Gil had been introduced to all of Europa as Baron Wulfenbach's son and heir presumptive, any conversation Gil had with anyone generally was, at best, civil. At worst, it was an exercise in one-sidedness, with a wrong reply an invitation to hours spent scrubbing the most disgusting things out of the vats in the large mechanical labs. A suggestion that perhaps a visit to his old friends in the student dormitories might cheer him up had lead to Ardsley spending several days cataloging every bolt, nut, and washer in the flight lab, without Zoing's help. He hadn't made that mistake again.
This particular experiment was yet another piece of Gil's latest pet project, a small flying machine that operated by a crankshaft-driven propellor and had wings like a bird, rather than a lighter-than-air ship with air cells. Gil was stress-testing the engine, a delicate operation, and he hadn't been thrilled to be interrupted. That meant if Ardsley pulled the wrong switch or turned the wrong dial, Gil was likely to be in an even more foul mood when he returned than he would be anyway.
The whine of the turbines changed pitch, and the little blue Cyclopean construct who was also supposed to be monitoring gave a squeal that almost matched the engines. "I know, I know!" He never quite understood what Zoing was saying exactly, but by now he'd learned to get the gist. "It looks as if the flywheel's wobbling, but maybe it's supposed to do that?" Like any non-intuitive engineer he understood how baseline steam engines operated and what the parts were supposed to look like, but once a Spark started making 'improvements', all bets were officially off. "And I haven't got the faintest idea what that balance arm is doing there . . . ."
The rattling got louder, and Zoing made a sound somewhere between "Whee!" and "Eek!" Ardsley's right hand hovered over the emergency cutoff switch, and his left over the vents to the combustion chamber. Gil was burning high-quality coal to generation the steam, which meant higher heat with less particulate byproducts, but it also meant it didn't take long to reach a very high temperature and it took a very long time for the components to cool off. He could slow the process by cutting off most of the air, but that would be gambling there was enough time for the engine to cool down naturally. If he was wrong, the best-case scenario involved picking expensive shrapnel out of the test chamber.
Worst-case, at the Castle's current altitude he'd probably have a little under a minute to see if he could learn how to fly before having a close encounter with whatever Swiss canton they were over at the moment.
The rattling was loud enough to nearly drown out another squeal from Zoing. Much as he was normally grateful for his own lack of the Spark, Ardsley found himself wishing desperately for at least a momentary intuition. "I hear it! I just don't know what to do!" The pressure gauge was creeping inexorably towards the redline–
A hand reached past and threw the emergency shutdown valve. There was a loud hiss and a massive cloud of steam as the water reservoir above the test chamber flooded the engine, obscuring the viewports. Ardsley spun around, and found himself staring into the expressionless face of his employer and one-time friend, Gilgamesh Wulfenbach. "Lucky for you I showed up when I did," Gil said, his tone betraying no indication whether Wooster was about to be on unpleasant cleaning duty again. "That thing nearly blew."
"Yes, well, I wasn't quite sure, sir, I didn't want to ruin the engine but–"
"But you weren't sure whether stopping the test would be worse, or whether I'd be angry no matter what you did.." To his surprise, Gil didn't, in fact, sound angry. Just resigned, and very, very tired. "Don't worry, Wooster. It doesn't matter now anyway."
"Sir?" It had taken a surprisingly short amount of time to get used to calling Gil "sir" but considering the rapid personality change his employer had undergone aboard Castle Wulfenbach, it probably shouldn't have been so startling. In Paris, Gil had been a dilettante, to put it kindly, though somehow he had managed to always do more than get by in his courses. And to put it mildly, he had been the life of any party he decided to attend, a good friend to those who braved his rakehell ways (including a not-as-deep-pocketed English non-intuitive engineer, to the point Ardsley had almost felt guilty at times about pulling the wool over his friend's eyes), generally the antithesis of the sarcastic and sometimes-withdrawn Spark he was aboard Castle Wulfenbach.
"It doesn't matter," Gil repeated, "because my father has yet another little test he wants to put me to. This one involves leaving the Castle, so I won't be working on the flyer or any other project for a while. You'll need to pack me something suitably formal, as I'm going to have to impress a bunch of idle-rich nobles, and knowing my father the daughters of any he especially wants to keep happy. At least he hasn't mentioned marry me off in the last few weeks. That's the last thing I need."
Ardsley felt a minor lurch in his stomach at the mention of marriage, but over the long months he'd perfected not thinking about it. "Where exactly is he sending you, sir?"
Gil slumped onto one of his work stools and picked up a mug of tea that Zoing had deposited at his elbow. "Some Count Vercordi, on the Cote d'Azur, apparently issued a whole lot of invitations to people who shouldn't be gathering in large groups and he seemed very intent that my father not hear about. Foolish, really, my father hears about everything. In any case, given no one involved is particularly Sparky, Father feels this isn't something he needs to address in the traditional way." Usually, that meant a Jaeger occupation of the town if it was a good day. "So he thought it might be nice for me to get out, meet some of Europa's nobility, and generally serve as a reminder that no matter how sneaky they think they are, my father is sneakier."
"Not in so many words, one assumes, sir."
"Of course not." Gil sighed. "So anyway, pack my bags–yours, too, of course. The son of Baron Wulfenbach can hardly travel without a valet."
"Of course, sir." Getting away from the Castle would be a nice change, assuming as always they weren't walking into some sort of anti-Wulfenbach trap. "I assume there will be some sort of security accompanying us?"
"What, let the designated heir go wandering off entirely on his own?" Gil snorted. "Please. No Jaegers, of course, this is still a high-class resort and we wouldn't want to frighten the quality. But I'll have a protection squad of regular troops with instructions to stay close, but not too close, and Boris will be baby-sitting."
"Dolokhov?" Ardsley grimaced before he could stop himself. "Is that really necessary, sir?"
"According to my father. And don't look like that, he's not so bad. It's not his fault he's a construct, after a fashion."
"With respect, sir, it's not the extra set of arms that I find . . . disconcerting." Dolokhov simply looked too hard and was far more clever than he let on. The Baron's amanuensis was also adept in a fight, highly observant, and pathologically loyal to the Baron. From what Ardsley had been told, he was not working for anyone else, though it was possible he was very deep-cover. It seemed more likely he was simply the Baron's eyes and ears–a little too sharply at times.
"Well, you'll just have to live with it. You're not the one he's baby-sitting, after all." Gil looked longingly at the test chamber. "I suppose it won't be so bad. It might be nice to have someone new to talk to."
Ardsley tried not to take it personally. He knew, on a rational level, professional distance was best for many reasons. Still, after Paris-Gil, Castle-Gil was an entirely different experience and a little sad. "Was there anything in particular you wanted me to pack, sir?"
"Whatever seems appropriate for a long, boring weekend with a bunch of well-born idiots." Unfortunately that really left far too much room for error, but at least Gil didn't seem in the mood to care too much. "Though, if you could, there are a few books on avian anatomy I have on my desk in the library–put those in, too? At least I might get something productive done."
"Certainly, sir." Ardsley waited a moment, but there apparently weren't any further instructions coming, so he made a quiet half-bow and backed to the door. Gil was still sitting at the workbench, nursing his tea, with Zoing watching from beneath that oversize hat. The little construct made a soft sighing sound and patted his master's knee with a blue claw. Ardsley stepped out the door and closed it as quietly as was possible with a heavy metal blast door.
Later that night, after deciding which of Gil's limited selection of shirts and greatcoats (whatever else he'd been doing in Paris, he hadn't been shopping for clothes) were suitable to pack, and which of his own even-more-limited wardrobe would be appropriate for ghosting along in Gil's shadow, Ardsley finally could retire for the night. Not that he was going to sleep any time soon. He had to write a report for a dead-drop communication before they left, and establish some way of passing information from their destination, or a way of hiding reports until they got back and he could send them.
Hanging his greatcoat casually on the back of the door (coincidentally blocking what he suspected was a peephole in the process), he sat down on his narrow but reasonably comfortable bunk and yanked off his boots. Reports could wait until after he'd had a quick nap, at least. He was tired, and it was getting harder some days to remember that his first job was not, in fact, gentleman's gentleman to Gilgamesh Wulfenbach.
Harder, but some reminders were stronger than others. Settling back on his pillow, he took out the old pocketwatch he carried in his waistcoat, ostensibly for sentiment rather than function (as he had a clock in his greatcoat that he kept synced to official Wulfenbach time.) Sliding his thumbnail under the back, he popped it open. Normally that would have revealed the inner workings, but the cogs and wheels in the body were an encryption device. Now, though, he was looking at the little portrait he kept on the back like in a locket. It had been made in Paris during their heady, foreshortened honeymoon. Melisande's hair was half-up, swept back from her face with a long cascade down the back. Her dark eyes were sparkling and her lips curved in an adoring smile, with just a hint of sadness. At some point, he thought, tracing a finger lightly along the edge of the portrait, he ought to get a picture of their son as well. Perhaps the next time he was home. When there was a next time. If there was a next time.
Ardsley sighed, closing his fingers around the watch, and closing his eyes. An hour or two of sleep, if he was lucky a dream of his wife and home, and then it was, apparently, off to the Cote d'Azur. Funny. For most people, that would probably be something to be excited about. So why the lingering sense of impending doom?
Of course, he thought, as he drifted off, there were Sparks involved . . . .