Chasing Sunlight

The mood aboard the Endeavor was somber by the time they left the remains of Danner’s Grasp. The site of the town was smoldering zint, interrupted with the orange glow of lingering fire and splinters of sheltershrooms still holding their green light. With the storm past, they could continue on their course and it wasn’t likely that the mercenary ship would be able to catch up to them any time soon after being blown for miles by the winds.

Once they were in the air, Antomine held a service for the three dead crew — all of which had been picked up in Beacon. George’s casket was empty, but there had been no talk of trying to find his body in the ruination of the corrupted settlement. Everyone assembled in the cargo bay, with ship’s controls pinned to keep them steady, and Antomine said the proper words. Each casket was closed and, one by one, rendered into dust by immersion in distilled luminiferous terrestrite before being dispersed in the wind.

The single bright note was that Penelope, the ship’s cat, stayed perched on Montgomery’s shoulder the whole time, grooming her wings and regarding the proceedings with haughty feline grandeur. She’d survived the bombardment that had turned the Endeavor into a wreck before Jonathan had paid for the refit, and she’d emerged from the boarding action unscathed, so the ship’s luck wasn’t entirely bad.

Antomine conducted the service for the mercenary boarders next, with eight cheap myceliplank boxes. The enemy airmen, in their uniforms, followed the Endeavor’s crew as the young chaplain administered the final rites. The two survivors of the attempt were allowed to attend, though Antomine’s guards loomed menacingly. Considering that both had needed the tender mercies of Doc Graham just to move, they couldn’t possibly have mischief on their mind — and even if they did, they were hardly capable of it.

Autochthon Reach came into view later in the day, the glow of gas and zint burning bright at the end of the train line below. The city badly wanted to be another Beacon, going so far as to whitewash its walls, but that just gave it a cracked veneer of false purity. Even the illuminated tower wasn’t quite right, as the lighthouse used gas instead of zint, channeling one of the innumerable wells into an ever-burning torch rising above the city walls. All the oldest cities were sited above such gas wells, though some new ones had been founded with the advent of rail and zint — though sometimes the supplies were rather precarious.

It was a relief to all on the Endeavor when, upon tethering to the docking pylons, the city was full of the normal bustle and traffic that any human settlement should have. The shadow of Danner’s Grasp had been palpable, everyone tense and uncertain as they approached the city, but Jonathan knew that Autochthon Reach would be safe. It was on the main train line from Beacon, so anything untoward would be noticed immediately and crushed without mercy.

“Most of my old crew are still with me,” Captain Montgomery told Jonathan, sharing a drink in the captain’s quarters once the ship was properly tied down. “The twelve that came along to begin with are here through hell or high waters, sure enough. But we need twenty to really run the Endeavor, and I’m afraid we’ll lose most of the new folk here after that business. Hiring on people willing to head out of human lands might take a while.”

“I appreciate the honesty, Captain,” Jonathan replied, swirling the brandy in his snifter and letting the ice clink against the sides. “But we cannot simply hold here. If you can’t find a full crew soon, we’ll find them at Danby’s.”

“If we don’t find them here or at Danby’s, we’re going to have problems,” Montgomery warned, taking out a pipe and tamping an exotic leaf into the bowl. The choice of smoke was an odd one, considering how hard it was to get a steady supply, but it was potent stuff and hard to begrudge the Captain his relaxation. “We can fly short-handed for a while, especially if we’re not too far from a city, but I won’t be going out into the wilderness with half my complement.”

“Nor would I ask it of you.” Jonathan swallowed the last of the brandy and made a mental note to get more while he could. “That would be supremely unwise, and if need be we will linger until we are properly crewed. What worries me is giving whatever agent sent those mercenaries against us more time. I doubt anyone would be willing or able to follow us too far out into the wilds, but there’s still plenty of opportunity for that ship to catch up while we wait here.”

“Maybe, but then we have to worry about coming back,” Montgomery said with a grunt, puffing gently on his pipe. “Could be better to resolve it now if we can. Hate to think about limping into port loaded down with treasure and there being a bunch of people lined up to take it from us.”

“I knew you were the right choice,” Jonathan put down the empty snifter and inclined his head to Montgomery. “Most people wouldn’t be thinking that far ahead.”

“I don’t need my ego stroked,” Montgomery grunted, looking at Jonathan through a haze of smoke. “I need my ship and crew safe.”

“Quite understandable,” Jonathan agreed. Ship and crew were resources to be valued, and haste would only squander that investment. “I’ll make some arrangements here and at Danby’s, and make sure we have friends waiting for us whenever we return. There are a few people who owe me favors — or I can owe favors to.” Jonathan’s finger made idle circles in the condensation on his glass as he mused over it. He didn’t intend to come back, but the others deserved some consideration for their role in bringing him east. “I will give us three days here. Four, at the outside. There are no repairs that would take longer than that, I expect?”

“Not likely,” Montgomery agreed in a gruff tone. “Some scoring on the envelope, and the upper hatch needs to be replaced. Simple enough. Be good to get some more cleaning done, and air out the ship.”

“Then I’ll leave you to it,” Jonathan said, and stood. “My own errands should not take overlong.”

He took a few moments to sort through his luggage, transferring several items to his pockets, and then needlessly straightened his cuffs before he stepped off the Endeavor. His cane rang on the boarding ramp with metronome precision as he headed to the paternoster, and down to the streets of Autochthon Reach. Up close, the off-white of the buildings was more yellow under the light of the gas lamps, and there was the oddly sweet smell from the harbor it was named after.

Jonathan kept his eyes sharp as he walked along the smooth paving of the street, out of the path of the mostly zint-powered carriages. Only twice did he have to run off pickpockets, by the simple expedient of turning his head to stare directly at them before they got too near. It would have been nice if working with the Reflected Council gave him some immunity from the seedy underbelly of Autochthon Reach, but crime wasn’t nearly as organized as the penny dreadfuls would have people believe.

Not far from the docks he found a hired carriage, which brought him away from the rougher sector near the port and to the string of estates on the promontory looking out over the Reach itself. Small lights hunkered on the water near the shore, as if afraid to go too far out. As well they might be, given what lurked in the deep waters of the Autochthon Sea. Every sailor who spent more than a few days on those waters had tales of phosphorescent glimmers outlining writhing forms that stretched the horizon, or hearing low whispers bubbling up through the froth of the waves.

The estate he was interested in proudly proclaimed its interests by way of a front yard displaying statues of twisted forms, many of them verging on the obscene or the profane and none of them human. The owner could only stay away from the eye of Antomine’s colleagues by exquisite perception of what fell just short of that invisible line, and hefty bribes to the local churches and government. Just walking to the front door made Jonathan could feel the accumulated blasphemies, like a discordant note on the edge of his senses.

“Master Heights,” the elderly butler greeted him with instant recognition, even though Jonathan had only been there once before. “Please come this way. Master Ludwig is expecting you.”

Jonathan followed the butler through wide halls lit by ever-burning gas lamps, the walls featuring art that used colors and shapes not native to the human eye. Strange artifacts stood in cases, fragments of ceramic and iron that mirrored those that had once filled Jonathan’s own house, though on a much grander and more daring scale. The walls and floor were paneled with a burgundy from the Verdant Expanse in lieu of the native stone, which made the estate much warmer while not incidentally demonstrating the owner’s massive wealth.

The butler brought him to an expansive library with a carpet whose colors drew a slow gradient from one side to the other, the piles made of some fabric from the uncertain lands beyond Godforge. André Ludwig himself was a big-bellied and big-bearded fellow, jolly looking in a pale peach suit, sat reading by the fireplace, fingers flicking pages with mechanical precision. His right hand gleamed as if it were made of metal — and it might well be, but it was certainly no prosthetic. André’s past was shrouded in obscurity, but with the decoration of the house such a deformity was certainly evidence of a certain type of misspent youth.

“Jonathan!” André boomed, laying the book aside and standing up, energetically striding over to shake hands. The metal one was slightly warmer than flesh. “I heard you were coming! Surprised you made it here yourself actually! Though I can guess sending it through the post could be a problem,” he finished, giving Jonathan a sly wink. “You’re looking far better these days!”

“Civilized clothing and a few good meals, that’s all,” Jonathan demurred, finally freeing his hand from André’s grasp. The eccentric had been heaven-sent when Jonathan had arrived from the wilds, bedraggled and half-feral for lack of human company, but his help had come with certain strings.

“No doubt, no doubt,” André said cheerfully, looking Jonathan up and down. “Did you bring it?”

“Of course,” Jonathan said, reaching into his suit and withdrawing an envelope from his inner pocket. Despite his experience with antiquities of all sorts, there were things he did not work with. A rule that he’d had to bend in order to secure transportation and some surreptitious aid in returning to Beacon with life, limb, and property intact.

He owed André, and Jonathan Heights was a man of his word. More, Jonathan preferred to have an ally in the city — he didn’t intend to be there long, but the opposition he’d encountered was more than he had anticipated. There was no telling what mischief might be performed while the Endeavor was in port.

André took the envelope with an eager gleam in his eye, extracting the slip of paper within and tossing the envelope in the fireplace. He whirled around to march three steps to a desk, slamming the translation on top of a large scrawl of twisted script, and looked over it feverishly. Jonathan took a step back. As a collector, André had many partial fragments of various secrets of those ancient and baleful races and ruins beyond the bounds of humanity’s light. He had needed only that last telling detail, that final salacious hint to complete some of the puzzles that drove his bent but brilliant intellect, and Jonathan was the only one who knew enough to deliver it.

The metallic hand made a fist, then uncurled again, fingers twitching as a dark light came and went behind André’s eyes. The man muttered to himself in a half-dozen tongues, fragments of words as if assembling some complete thought from it. Jonathan only hoped the man had the strength of mind to come to grips with whatever dread surmise he had gleaned from the fragment Jonathan had provided.

“Yes, of course,” André said aloud after half a minute of wrestling with malign insight. “Ha! No wonder old Reginald thought there were other lands beyond the darkness. Your dad was a lot sharper than I thought.” He turned his regard on Jonathan, an almost hypnotic draw to his eyes. “Is that where you’re going, hmm? I can keep a secret.”

There was a dangerous temptation to speak, the fire dimming as André turned his full intent upon Jonathan. Whatever strange understanding André had found was clearly a genuine one, the power of his obsession burning through into reality and able to sway the heart and minds of anyone with a weak enough will. Jonathan was not such a person, so he merely hardened his heart and his tone.

“My business is my own, André. I would prefer nobody else meddling in it.” Even if Jonathan was interested in his father’s old business, it was best not to feed even the slightest hint of vulnerability.

André’s genial demeanor vanished like a shadow in light, revealing the hard and calculating man that had made so much money building Autochthon Reach’s roads and sewers. Muscles tensed, showing a substantial figure under the rotund exterior. Jonathan took another step back, hand gripping his cane tight, ready to move.

“Who are you to deny me, eh? A third-rate explorer, son of a second-rate explorer. A bit of a gift for languages and some middling luck and you think you know everything!”

“I know very little, André,” Jonathan said, keeping his gaze focused on the man. What he did know was how heady and intoxicating even the smallest glimpse into the underpinnings the world could be, and was willing to let the sudden flush of arrogance run its course. The chance that it wouldn’t – or that André would go utterly mad – was why Jonathan hadn’t wanted to come himself. But if André could be satisfied, he would be an incredible source of help. “My search is for something you wouldn’t be interested in, my route there one that is dangerous to explain.”

“Dangerous? This is dangerous,” André waved at the interlocked symbols and writing upon his desk. Jonathan purposely let his eyes slide past it, so he would not be tempted to see what pattern was revealed. “Prying secrets from the world’s grasp, making them your own, peering past the veil to understand what a perilous rope we navigate with every breath and every step!”

“Yes, precisely,” Jonathan said, and André paused for a moment, thrown by the unexpected agreement. “Do you remember what I told you when I agreed to translate those relics, André? What I warned you about?” Jonathan watched André closely as he began to remove his jacket, folding it over his arm.

He couldn’t afford to get into a spat with such a personage, not because he feared André could best him physically, but because of the calculus of consequence if he was forced to defend himself. If Jonathan left the estate in flames, the Inquisition and Antomine would know, and it would make it difficult for the expedition to continue at the very least. A situation which Jonathan did not find attractive.

“As I recall,” André said slowly, “you reminded me that knowledge was jealous, a tyrant that brooked no rivals.”

“Precisely. You’re a smart man, André, and you’ve certainly read the reports of all those poor fools who understood one too many hints, stared just slightly too deep into the mysteries and enigmas that surround us. You’re wrestling with a single revelation that is trying to rule over you — and I doubt very much you would wish to strain yourself further. But I can tell you what I’m looking for, as that is hardly a secret.” As Jonathan spoke he approached André, his jacket folded over his arm.

“That will do, for a start,” André said, face contorted by a sudden hunger.

“I’m after sunlight,” Jonathan said, and watched André’s expression. It cycled through disbelief, curiosity, rejection, then anger. André clearly didn’t think Jonathan was taking him seriously. As he was about to explode Jonathan tossed his coat over the notes exposed on the desk, and a hidden pressure that had been pressing down on the room vanished.

André launched himself forward, as if he could strangle Jonathan with his bare hands, and Jonathan wrapped the big-bellied man in a hold that a tattooed sailor had taught him long ago. André struggled, limbs flexing in ways that were not quite human, but as the seconds passed he eventually succumbed to the choking grip. When he sagged, Jonathan eased him into a chair and cast about the library for supplies. He repurposed a curtain to cover the arcane symbology on the desk, and poured a hefty shot from the liquor cabinet in the corner. Then he shook André gently and, as the man came to, Jonathan shoved the whiskey into his hand.

“Feeling better?” Jonathan inquired, not unkindly. In answer, André took a large gulp of alcohol and breathed deeply for a moment.

“I do apologize,” André said after a moment. “I was overcome.” He looked up at Jonathan, and while he wasn’t as manic, there was still a darkness behind his eyes. Knowledge, once learned, could not be unlearned.

“Certainly,” Jonathan said, straightening his jacket and making sure it was arranged properly. “Though I was not lying. I have seen sunlight, and it is that which I am following. Beyond that, you understand why I have no desire to share.”

“It’s a fairy tale,” André said, eyes wandering to the covered desk. “But I should not mock it. You know what you’re about.”

“I may consider our accounts settled, then?” Jonathan asked, leaning on his cane while André took more discreet sips of his drink.

“Certainly, certainly,” André waved it away. “Now that I understand — my god! It is—” Jonathan threw up a hand after maybe a dozen words, the arrangement of which made no sense to him and yet still hinted at some undiscernible order.

“I am afraid that is beyond my understanding,” Jonathan said. “If you would indulge me, I have one question and a favor I might ask you.”

“Ask away!” André said, stroking his beard and clearly in a better humor.

“What did my father tell you of his work? I inherited all his notes — but for the last one, which he took with him on his final expedition.” Needless to say, Reginald Heights hadn’t returned from that one, and though that particular notebook had still wound up in Jonathan’s hands – something he would certainly not admit to André – it was a mere patchwork puzzle of a living man’s thoughts. If André could shed any further light on what Jonathan knew, resolve any of the unknowns that still plagued Jonathan’s route, he had to find out.

“Not so much, in all,” André said, standing up and turning toward the drinks cabinet, having already finished the high-proof stuff Jonathan had poured for him. “He provided some of the first pieces of my collection, but his work — when he spoke, I understood maybe one word in ten. Old Reginald seemed fixated on the idea that this world was but one layer, and things like zint-light were leakage from others. He was looking for points where such leakage became actual passages, but so far as I knew he never found one.” By his flushed face, André was feeling the effects of the drink, but his words remained perfectly steady and articulate.

“That aligns with my own findings,” Jonathan said, though Reginald had become increasingly distant and uncommunicative toward the end. While Jonathan didn’t quite agree with his father’s understanding, the notes he’d left of his explorations and discovers had been vital for Jonathan’s own career.

“The favor then — my ship was accosted by mercenaries on the way here, yet I don’t know why. Do you know of anyone who has been asking after me? Or, for that matter, who could object so strongly to my expedition as to hire an entire airship to intercept me, with all the difficulties that entails?” He’d been musing on it for the entire flight to Autochthon Reach, and the more he considered it the more he realized how much of an investment that attack had been.

“That is a question,” André admitted. “It’s not like your little trip is a secret — it was in the papers a month or so ago. At the back, admittedly. Used to be any expedition was enough to garner an article,” he added mournfully. “All the fire’s gone out of the kingdom. People want to just shelter in their safe little houses behind their walls. We used to care about pushing out the borders of humanity!”

“It’s a shame,” Jonathan murmured politely. André’s complaint had no real grounds, but it seemed impolitic to disagree.

“You, specifically, I have not heard about.” André glanced once again at the covered desk, clearly tempted, before returning his regard to Jonathan. “But a fast courier arrived several days ago, just ahead of the last storm. Unusual, as that would only be marginally faster than a train, and even more unusual, it’s still here. It’s the only thing of note I can think of.”

“Thank you,” Jonathan said. “If you find out anything else, I would appreciate a missive.”

“I will make a few inquiries, but I can promise nothing.”

“That is more than enough,” Jonathan said. “Unless there is any business, I believe I should be about my business.”

“You should,” André agreed. He didn’t offer his hand, merely gestured with his drink to the door of the library. Jonathan turned to leave, and his hand was on the knob when André’s voice came again. “And Jonathan?”

“Yes?”

“If you lay hands on me again, I will end you,” André said, entirely without rancor.

“Understood, André,” Jonathan said, and left.

He found another carriage to transport him back to the port, glad to leave André and his obsessions behind. There was no telling what André knew – or thought he knew – or what such knowledge would drive him to. If the man could make inquiries, that was for the best, but Jonathan had hoped for something actionable.

The Endeavor was quiet when Jonathan went past the airman on watch, with half the crew gone. Antomine was taking care of the prisoners and sending messages back to Beacon, while Eleanor had made vague excuses before vanishing into the city. He thought she was also sourcing ampules that fit the rifles they’d taken from the mercenaries, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if there was some Reflected Council business to deal with.

Perhaps it was that very stillness that disquieted him, or lingering nerves from dealing with André, but Jonathan found himself on edge as he mounted the stairs to the uppermost deck. He stopped and listened, hearing only the noise of the port through the removed top hatch, and continued on to his cabin and gingerly opened the door. There was nobody inside, but someone had certainly been there.

Crates that had still been packed were unsealed, hasty crowbar-work splintering the myceliplank and spilling clothing, tools, and artifacts over the floor of the room. The drawers of his desk were open, and even the mattress of his bed had been cut open, spilling the packing over the floor. It was, withal, a mess, and in it Jonathan detected the selfsame hand he’d been seeking.

He closed the door behind him, wedging his cane into the handle to keep the door barred, and approached his safe with caution. Forcing it, let alone taking the massive chunk of iron, would have been nigh-impossible to do without being noticed, but cracking it was always an option. He rotated the dial through the familiar numbers and opened it, taking in the contents at a glance. The papers and petty cash were still there, but there was one notable and glaring absence.

His maps.

Jonathan’s fists clenched, but he refused to panic just yet. First he extracted a particular fragment of broken mirror from other keepsakes crowding the drawers of his desk and examined the safe in the reflection, sliding his fingers into the triggers and opening the hidden compartment. He lifted the lid and let out a slow breath as he saw the contents intact.

His original notes, and his father’s notebooks, were irreplaceable. The maps derived from them were less so, but reconstructing them would take time. More time than Jonathan was willing to spend, especially when it was so obvious there was someone with the resources to move against him. That they were missing instead of destroyed suggested that they could be recovered — and as he’d kept them in cipher, it would take time for anyone to interpret them, even if they were copied wholesale. Which they would find it difficult to do.

He closed the safe and returned the mirror to its place in the desk, then went below decks to find the man on watch. The airman had seen nothing, of course, but there were a dozen ways to approach the ship from above, and with the hatch missing there wouldn’t even be noise from that. It was an oversight on his part, to assume that the Endeavor would be sacrosanct within the port environs, or at least that his own cabin would remain unmolested. One he would be correcting.

Righting things within his study and finding nothing of any value missing aside from the maps, he first penned a missive to André to inform him of the theft — though Jonathan gave even odds that André was the one behind it. Then he waited for Eleanor to return, pacing the lower deck where the gangplank ran out to the port. While Antomine would need to know as well, Jonathan did not expect his particular talents to be of use.

When Eleanor approached the ship, she had only one maid in her retinue; Marie was, presumably, in convalescence somewhere better-equipped than an airship. Upon seeing him waiting at the gangplank, seated upon a spare barrel, she adjusted her cloche hat and squared her shoulders before marching up to him. She jerked her chin toward the ship, having no wish to discuss business in public, and he followed her in.

“What now?” She snapped, her mood already poor.

“We’ve had a break-in,” Jonathan said, unruffled. “They took my maps. Which I can reconstitute if necessary, but finding them would be faster — and of course, we might find out who has set themselves against us.” He left unsaid that they could then remove that person. Eleanor huffed in exasperation, but nodded and turned to Sarah.

“Secure our quarters, please,” she directed. “Ensure that nobody’s been inside them.”

“Ma’am,” Sarah said, and preceded them up the stairway. Eleanor went to his cabin, and he opened the door for her. She prowled inside and he watched from the doorway as she looked around, then opened the safe door with an ease demonstrating either knowledge of the combination or a more esoteric talent. He wouldn’t have bet money either way.

“You shouldn’t have cleaned up,” she muttered over her shoulder at him, then straightened. “I’m not some penny-dreadful detective to track them by scent alone, but it’s definitely a them. The safecracker was a lot more skilled than the muscle, so they shouldn’t be too hard to find if you know where to ask the right questions.”

“Which you do,” Jonathan said, leaning on his cane as she closed the safe with her foot. He could feel the impact of the heavy door slamming home through the deck.

“Which I do,” she agreed.

“My lady, our rooms are untouched,” Sarah said from further down the hall. Eleanor scowled.

“So they went right to your cabin,” she said, and Jonathan nodded. The conclusion was obvious: at least one of the crew had spilled the information. Likely one of the ones who had abandoned the ship after the recent difficulties.

“Very well. Sarah?” She called again. “Get changed. We’re going out,” Eleanor said, and then pointed a finger at Jonathan. “You will not be welcome where we’re going.”

“I have no intention of intruding in Reflected Council business, I assure you,” Jonathan chuckled, one hand atop the other as he leaned on his cane. “There is a particular courier ship in port I have business with that may be related to this little problem. Or perhaps not, but it is a better use of my time than waiting for you to return with my maps.”

“What if they’ve copied ‘em?” Eleanor asked, lingering at the door to her own cabin.

“I would not worry about that overmuch. The new cipher is far better and certain aspects are not so easily reproduced — however.” Jonathan pursed his lips. “If they have made copies, I see no reason we should not make ourselves beneficiaries of our adversary’s work.”

“So long as they’re not going to spontaneously combust while I hold ‘em or anything,” Eleanor muttered. Jonathan snorted.

“Nothing so volatile,” he assured her.

“Barring someone taking them from the city, I should have them back by dinner,” Eleanor told him, and closed the door to her room. Jonathan strapped on the shoulder holster for his pistol and ran his fingers over his suit, even though it hung perfectly as always. Only then did he descend the stairs and cross the gangplank out to the port.

Autochthon Reach had seven distinct towers with mooring beams, all illuminated by gas run from one of the innumerable wells the city had tapped. Most of the zint-light was from the docked ships, cold blue clashing with warm yellow and casting fractured shadows in every direction.

Among the spotlights the small courier ship, with its sleek lines and overlarge engines, was easy to spot against the larger cargo and passenger hulls. Jonathan eyed the complex of lifts, walkways, rope bridges, and cranes, and marched briskly along the mooring arm. Perhaps it was innocent, but in his experience nothing happened by chance.