Chapter One
Arcvale was, without question, a proud city.
It showed in the gleaming spires, the gracious domes, the elegantly carved columns lining the streets, and in the magnificent mansions that could be spotted on almost every wide carriageway.
This was the Upper Level of Arcvale, and indeed deserved the honour of having its name in capital letters.
The owners of the mansions could trace their families back over many generations, and often did so with pride.
Many an evening ball had been hosted to celebrate a great-uncle, thrice removed, who had endowed something every bit as magnificent as the small palace in which his family now resided.
The lower levels of Arcvale accepted the social schism.
After all, those who lived in the rarified atmosphere of the Upper Level, and the one below it as well, had ancestors who were the founders of their entire society.
Brave citizens who had discovered that digging down was easier (and cheaper) than building up.
The result? Six levels of astounding ingenuity, each with their own particular characteristics.
The sixth level was, of course, the Forge.
A massive realm of fire, iron, steam, and hammers.
This was where the machinery that sustained Arcvale had been created, and it continued to maintain, design, and develop those machines.
From the Forge, one could ascend—via trammelbuggy—to each of the successive levels, rising at last to the heights of magnificence, both in design and appearance. Here, the sun glinted from golden spires, and the stars shone above brightly lit sledways, paved with smooth stone.
It was to this exquisite level that a tall, quiet, gentleman made his way.
He had summoned an aethercoach from the Cloudyard as the sun set, and by the time he reached his destination and disembarked, it was full dark.
But he moved without hesitation, turning down a small lane and stopping by a very large wooden gate.
He stared at the ironwork, the delicacy distracting from the actual strength of the massive letter “A”, which secured not only the wood, but the hinges as well.
With a small sigh, he reached up above the side post to retrieve something. And smiled as he found it.
A key, old as dirt, they used to say, but impossible to use unless you knew the combination. It had been a well-kept secret, known only to the residents of the house behind the gate.
Silently, the gentleman slid the key into the right position, and turned it...once, twice...then back once again. As he did so, a series of gears engaged somewhere, and with a delightful tick tock tick the huge door slowly swung inward, revealing little but darkness within.
He paused for a moment or two, as if to collect his thoughts.
Then he squared his shoulders and walked through the gate, following the path to the front door.
The entrance seemed to respond, since the huge wooden door swung silently back into place and the locking mechanism solidly thunked as the ticking slowed and then stopped.
Everything stilled, as if the world was holding its breath.
But then the man moved forward, lifted the latch on the interior door, and walked inside, closing it quietly behind him.
Sir Lucas Ashcombe had returned to Arcvale.
Definitely an important event, but to his disappointment, no explosions of fireworks, aerial displays put on by the Arcvale Flight Division, or soft screams of excitement from hundreds of beautiful women, greeted the closing of the door behind him.
Instead, he was facing a rather musty corridor, with practically no light at all coming in from the high windows. Which wasn’t surprising, given that they were pretty much covered with grime.
Lucas sighed. Of course this place had been allowed to fall into disrepair. He’d made it quite clear that he was done with his family, done with Arcvale, and did not intend to return. Ever.
Reversing that declaration had been difficult—but necessary—and had matters been different, he’d still be in his delightful cottage in Sectorvale, with his feet up by the fire.
For a moment he almost expected to see his very first tiny tickerkin trundling along the carpet.
But little Patch had been gone now for close on three decades.
He froze as an odd noise percolated the silence. Sort of a squeak-screech-clatter. He relaxed as he recognised it, surprised and pleased at the same time.
“Edgar, you rusty old sod. What on earth are you doing here?”
The raven-shaped tickerkin clanked his way toward Lucas, one eye glowing red, the other blinking furiously. “Master Lucas,” he said, voice creaking and rusty. “Is that really you?”
“In the flesh, Edgar. In the flesh.”
“In that case, may I say it’s about damn time, because I need an oil change, a great deal of lubrication, and possibly a few new gears. As your tickerkin, is it your duty to attend to my maintenance, which you have failed to do for going on ten years.”
Lucas’s lips twitched. “My most profound apologies, Edgar. You may be assured I shall attend to all those matters, if not immediately, then shortly thereafter.” He glanced around. “Is the rest of the house this bad?”
“Worse.” Edgar managed a snort. “I did my best, Mr Lucas. But without help and guidance?” He lifted his beak in that gesture of mild distaste and managed to almost fluff his feathers, dislodging a few flakes of rust. “You’re damn lucky the walls of this place are still standing.”
“I can tell.” He started down the corridor toward what used to be a hall. “I need to see if this place is habitable, Edgar. Or at least bearable for a couple of weeks or so.”
The clank-bump-thud-clank told him that Edgar was following behind. “I don’t need much. A bed, a fireplace, and maybe some food.”
Edgar sighed loudly. “You’ll need a lot more than that, sir, if you’re planning on using Ashcombe Cottage as a pied à terre.”
Lucas turned and shot him a quick glance. “What makes you think I’m going to be staying?”
“I may be a tad rusty on the outside, Mr Lucas. But the workings of my brain remain unimpaired. You, who swore on everything you held holy, that you’d never set foot in Arcvale again, let alone the Ashcombe residence, and held to that oath for nearly ten years.
.. You have now broken that vow. So one would deduce that some dire financial crisis is looming, and in your opinion, you’re the only one who can fix it. ”
“Astoundingly acute, Edgar. Almost frighteningly so.”
“Hmph.” The snort made Lucas grin. He’d loved this tickerkin for decades, and was delighted to find him the same irascible curmudgeon he’d left so long ago.
“I suppose that means you’ll be wanting food, then?”
“I will, but not to worry tonight. I had a meal of sorts on the ornithopter.” He sighed as they reached the end of the corridor. “I’m tired, Edgar. So tired I could sleep on a pile of bricks if I had to. Food isn’t the top priority right at this moment.”
“Well, I daresay we can find something, sir. And your bed is still in your room. I have been keeping everything as you left it, as much as I can.”
“For which I shall be ever grateful.” Lucas stopped and smiled at his tickerkin. “You’re the one thing I’m happy to see, Edgar. The only one.”
“In that case, would you mind showing your gratitude by oiling a couple of my joints?”
*~~*~~*
While Lucas and Edgar were reacquainting themselves, a couple of leagues away and one level down, a woman stood with her hands on her hips and a threatening frown on her face as she stared at her fox-shaped tickerkin.
“Sprocket, I thought I told you to dispose of this gown?”
“I couldn’t bring myself to do it, my Lady. D’you have any idea how much that silk embroidery is selling for on Level Five? We could put a new roof on the house, and probably add some more flowers to the garden on what it would bring.”
“Last time I checked, we did not need a new roof. And the garden is doing very nicely, as Mrs McMichael commented the other day.”
“Mrs McMichael couldn’t grow a dandelion if her life depended on it,” replied the tickerkin. “And you know this gown becomes you more than almost everything else in your wardrobe.”
“And you know that there is very little chance of my needing anything ‘becoming’ in the foreseeable future.” Lady Verity Turner-Yardley gave her tickerkin what might be referred to as a ‘speaking’ look.
Sprocket ignored it. “You might, if you decided to find some gumption and go to a formal ball or two.”
“I have plenty of gumption.”
“Where? In the wardrobe? Or the attic?”
Verity rolled her eyes. “Stop, Sprocket. Just stop. I will not, under any circumstances, rejoin that brainless, tittering mob that passes for high society here in Arcvale.”
“You’d rather stay home and work on those funding numbers, wouldn’t you?”
“And what if I would? It’s fascinating, complicated, and if I invest at just the right moment, the Yardley Home will benefit greatly.
And you know they need a new roof.” She stared at the brilliant crimson corset, and the gold thread sparkling throughout the richly detailed embroidery. “And now you’ve mentioned it...”
“Absolutely not.” Sprocket inserted herself between her mistress and the garment. “If you won’t wear it tomorrow night, I’m putting it back in the wardrobe.”
“Tomorrow night? Seriously? A modest dinner with some dancing, for the purpose of raising funds, is not really the sort of event that calls for such finery, as well you know. I’d look quite silly giving my speech in something better suited to an elegant and formal soiree.
” She shook her head. “I was thinking of the grey silk?”
The tickerkin made a sound as close to a snort as a tickerkin could manage. “Oh that would be lovely.” The sarcasm was hard to miss. “If, of course, you want to look like an old maid well past her fourth decade.”
Verity rolled her eyes. “As long as the money flows in, dear Sprocket, who the hell cares what I look like?”
“Well, I do, for one, but being a humble tickerkin, my opinion is, undoubtedly, irrelevant.”
“You haven’t been humble since the day we met.” Verity shook her head, amused. “I was...what...eight?”
“Yes. Halfway to your ninth birthday.” She sighed. “So young.”
“Both of us,” chuckled Verity. “Now my back aches at odd times, and you need a lot more oil and grease than you used to.” She shook her head. “But all that aside, I won’t be wearing this tomorrow night. Especially since that dratted Overton will be there.”
“Sir Reginald Overton has a very large fortune, you know.”
“Of course I know. That’s why I invited him.” She frowned. “I shall put up with his ogling ways until I have convinced myself that I cannot, in any way, dig some of his coinage out of him for our orphans. After that? His presence becomes unnecessary.”
Sprocket remained silent for a moment or two. “That is a rather cold assessment, my Lady.”
“I know.” Verity nodded. “I’ve discovered that keeping all my assessments cold and practical is the best way to proceed successfully.” She absently stroked the corset. “Once emotions get involved? Common sense goes out the window and trouble rushes in before you can close it again.”
The room fell silent, the twittering of the birds outside the only sound.
“You’re thinking of him again, aren’t you?” Sprocket asked quietly.
“No. Absolutely not.” Verity’s chin went up.
“I have pushed the entire matter from my mind, and I wish you’d do the same.
Clear up your old memory circuits, Sprocket.
Eliminate everything that is more than ten years old.
I have, and I’m better for it.” She spun on her heel and strode firmly from the room.
Her tickerkin sighed, and extended the clamp that lurked beneath her paw, touching the exquisitely elegant gold decorations. “Poor Miss Verity,” she said to herself. “She’s not forgotten him. And she never will.” The cleverly created foxy face turned somber. “God help us if that man ever returns.”