Sparks - Tales from the Provinces Read online

wrong?

  Heavy footfalls on wood carried to him over the gentle chugalug of the steamboat’s paddlewheel. “No, no…” But mewling wouldn’t save him. The river might. Icy dread crept across his limbs. He couldn’t swim. He’d drown! The footfalls echoed louder. A hopeless moan escaped his lips.

  Cyrus rattled the loose railing. It might float. Bereft of more reliable alternatives, he threw his weight against it. It held. With a desperate plea to the river goddess Tethia, he leveraged himself against the weak railing once more, straining. It snapped loose with a jolt, and he tumbled into the river.

  I’m free! Struggling for shore, determined vengeful plots began to simmer, “An eye for an eye, Lestrone!”

  For a Rainy Day

  The coal-fueled locomotive running from Morrison City to Wolfram rattled the china upon the table between Addis Wakefield and the chairman of Kromm’s Meteor Hunting Society, Markus Aveon.

  “The time draws near, Markus, for the Society to take a more active role within the Provinces.”

  “Dear Addis, the Society has never been about wresting direct power for ourselves. We’ve amassed our fortunes by discretely playing the provinces against one another.”

  “Yet we’re reaching the limit of our influence. The governments have grown arrogant and strong from technologies that we have fed them. They might, no, they will turn on us.” Addis shifted uncomfortably in her seat, fidgeting with her handbag and fluttering a folding fan.

  Markus scoffed, “Circumstances are not nearly as dire as you suggest. What would you have us do? Try to overthrow three nations at once?”

  Addis gestured sharply with her fan, “Yes! Although not blatantly. Covertly. I’m uneasy, Markus. We haven’t had a valuable meteor strike in years. Even our Tomlin and Chalice branches struggle to fabricate any new innovations from the old discoveries.” Her hidden hand clasped at something small and barbed inside her purse.

  “Perhaps they struggle,” Markus chuckled, “but perhaps we leaders have also tucked some things away for a rainy day, eh?”

  Addis stood in a huff as if to pace within the private railcar, then casually tossed the twitchbriar she had palmed onto Markus. He flinched as the thing clung onto his pleated vest. A second later it buzzed and sparked loudly with no apparent results.

  “And of course, we’ve surely kept some innovations for ourselves,” Marcus said wryly. He pried the dead twitchbriar loose, “such as the protective weave of my clothing. Completely shock-proof, and it can repel most knife-strikes, as well.” He called out, “Gerrard!” and then sighed, “I’m afraid, Ms. Wakefield, that you’ll need to step down as vice-chairwoman for the Kromm MHS.”

  God’s teeth! The bodyguard. Markus had hired him only yesterday. He could ruin months of planning! Choosing deception, Addis squealed as if in alarm while lashing out with the edge of her fan. Markus lurched backwards in surprise as the tines scratched his temple. The heavy tranquilizer acted quickly and he slowly wilted into his chair.

  On cue, Gerrard burst into the railcar from the far door. Concern bloomed as he found Addis kneeling beside his new boss. She dabbed at Markus’s wound with a napkin and waved her fan over him vigorously. “Quickly Gerrard, fetch help. Mr. Aveon’s just collapsed. I fear the worst!” The man nodded anxiously and sprinted back the way he had come.

  Addis turned back to Markus with a dark look, “I’ll be taking charge of Kromm’s Society now, Markus. Then Kromm itself soon enough. I promise you. Although you’ve got me curious: what other secrets have you been hiding from me? I was simply going to kill you.” She tsked in thought, “Perhaps instead, I’ll have to tuck you away for a rainy day, eh?”

  Desperate Sons

  “Hersa’s tits! I can’t beat the bastard!” Sunder cast his King across the board in disgust. His older brother Mournesto slouched back against some crates, looking sheepish.

  “I told you,” Redburne, the eldest, replied from another corner of the musty cellar they hid within, “It’s that damn pawn you keep gobbling up on the third move. He’s setting you up.”

  “But he’s just hanging it out there without any support. It’s insolent. Bloody rude!”

  Peering through the grimy glass of the basement’s only window, Redburne was about to retort, when he saw someone creeping up the front steps. He hissed sharply for silence. It was late evening, and the city street was quiet. With the shopkeeper having already locked up for the night, they should have been unbothered until dawn. Redburne was furious. “Mournesto! I told you not to visit that hussy! I think trouble followed you back.”

  Hours after discovering their father gone missing, they’d been framed for the murder of Wolfram’s Chief of Constabulary. They’d been hunted throughout the city for days on end. The brothers had hoped to clear their names, or find a lead to the true killer, or both. But they had failed completely. The tabloids were dubbing them ‘The Desperate Sons of Markus Aveon’.

  “She’s no hussy! She’s a lady, and I adore her, Red!”

  “You adore all of them!” accused Sunder, “Dammit Moury! Your appetite for women is going to get us caught before we find out who set us up.”

  “Shut up you two! Get to the bulkhead. Now!” The three brothers scrambled for the rear of the cluttered basement just as the door above creaked open slowly. A sound like bouncing steel bearings echoed down the stairs.

  “Staggerjacks!” cried Redburne, “Move it!”

  In seconds, a high-pitched whine assaulted their hearing, ramping up quickly in volume. Redburne felt his legs go wobbly as he reached the bulkhead. A dazzling burst of light flooded the room, and the whine reached a painful crescendo. He was seeing spots, but he forced himself to throw the latch and shove.

  The doors rattled but wouldn’t open.

  The brothers fell back in a heap. Sunder flailing about blindly, eyes wide, having caught the worst of the staggerjack detonations. Dizzily, Redburne managed to help Sunder up, then searched for the section of wall he had noticed earlier that was missing a few large bricks. The breach might be their only hope of escape. Mournesto gripped him by the shoulders, yelling into his face. Holding each other upright, the two brothers kicked desperately to enlarge the gap in the wall, then tumbled through.

  Redburne looked back, and his heart sank. “No!”

  Sunder hadn’t followed, and now squirmed under the knees of a burly constable. The shadows of more men could be seen.

  “C’mon Red!” Mournesto’s mouth moved, “We can’t fight!” Redburne struggled briefly, then allowed himself to be dragged through the adjoining basement, up the stairs, and out into the city. They fled aimlessly, desperate sons in truth.

  Dalancean Dreams

  “Where the heck is all the meat?” Bridgette challenged. When investigating she often just bull-rushed the nearest suspect, figuring if she caught the bastard off guard he might accidentally tip his hand. In this instance ‘the bastard’ was her mother — a crafty widow with marginal ethics and a knack for pushing Bridgette’s buttons.

  “Tut-tut, darling. No need to be so brash this early in the morning. You usually save your tirades until after tea, you know. Where is all what meat? Exactly?”

  “The Dalancean meats imported to your restaurant. Your invoices stopped listing golden tamar, or any other meat, well over a month ago. Yet business seems better than ever. You’ve begun living like a queen. I’m baffled.” And worried, what was Mother up to this time? Bridgette adjusted her leather corset with an angry tug.

  “Ah, you’ve been rummaging through my records, have you? Shame on you, snooping on your own mother like that! Well, you can rest easy. I found a cheaper supplier a while back, and have simply been lax with the bookkeeping.”

  “What about the sudden increase in the tallies of ‘placed’ and ‘deceased’ pets over at your animal shelter?”

  “That?” her mother fluttered a pearl-ornamented fan in front of her as if to clear away bad air, “Merely variance, darling. Just what are you getting at?”

  �
�A new supplier for one business — yet no records of it — matched by an unusual exodus of pets from your other. It becomes very suspicious, Mother. What’s really going on?”

  “Are you implying that I’ve started supplying Dalancean Dreams with pet meat? From my own shelter? Deary, your morbid imagination has once again gotten the better of you. I’m insulted, actually, that you’d even think me capable of such evil. My cherished pets? I think we’re done here. Good day!” her mother departed in a swirl of skirts.

  But Bridgette wasn’t done.

  Roberta de’Givani, hostess of Dalancean Dreams, had little light to shed on the topic. “I’m sorry Bridgette, as long as the meals are timely, I could care less about the process. But take a look for yourself, if you like.”

  She did so, determined to uncover something scandalous. Inside the kitchen’s meat-locker, frozen carcasses of a uniform size and shape filled the shelves.

  “Well, those could be tamar monkeys.” There certainly wasn’t anything large enough to be canine, and the shelter never housed this many felines. And yet…

  Muffled voices echoed up from Bridgette’s mother’s basement. The stairwell reeked of slaughter.

  “Mother? Are you down there?”

  “Come on down, darling,” her mother chimed, “You see, Inspector? My girl’s obnoxiously inquisitive nature has sussed out key mistakes in our ‘exotic cuisine’ operation. Thank you darling for your