Engines of Obsession: Chapter 17

Chapter 17: Confrontation

"Are you okay, Turner?"

The question startled Turner from his thoughts, abruptly bringing him back to the task at hand. He kind of regretted it, as he was immediately assaulted with that humid stench of the sweating horse drawing the cart. The slow sway of the ride had lulled him into a daze, something he wasn't used to when riding the normally bumpy carts. Byron's loaner was a little fancier than most, and had a smooth ride despite the bumpy cobblestones. Turner didn't get how, but all the extra complexity around the axle was the most likely culprit.

"Yeah... yeah, I'm fine. Just a lot on my mind, thanks Milo," Turner replied, shaking his head. He had yet to tell the others about his encounter with Anne, so everyone had gone on with the original plan of dragging the construct remains over to the Stoneman shop. It was more work than he'd have liked. Summer was trying one last gasp to hold on before fall's start, leading to an unseasonably hot and humid day for this time of year. The baking warmth of the cobblestones soaking up the heat didn't help matters, now that it was past noon.

Milo nodded and settled into his seat again, giving Turner an uncertain smile. It wasn't really necessary, as the cart was already approaching the shop. If anything it was even busier now, with a number of people milling around outside. A small measure of guilt hit Turner for not telling everyone about his encounter, but he needed time to digest what had happened... and he wanted the others more focused on their current task.

That didn't stop Turner from hopping off the cart early, letting out a grunt as his knees absorbed the shock. His head was warm - he should have worn a hat - and his linen shirt clinging to his chest from the thin sheen of sweat. This was shaping up to be an unpleasant day. But once he was off the cart, he could guide it in near the shop and out of the road, where annoyed looks were already collecting about the slow trot.

One would have thought that a shop attached to a smithy would be even worse in this heat, but when Turner approached the door, a cool breeze wafted from within. Just a peek in was enough for the clerk to identify him, pointing him out to a larger man in a spun cotton shirt. He wasn't as broad as other smiths Turner had met, but the well-muscled man had the arms to show he did the work. Blue eyes locked onto Turner's own gaze, and the smith - presumably one of the Stoneman family, made a crude beckoning gesture before heading to the back, making his desire known over the noise of the crowd outside.

Turner gave a quick motion for the others to bring the crate in, and after a little wrestling with the heavy wooden box, he ended up helping Milo and Martin out, slowly making his way toward the back. Normally, cutting through the line of customers would have gotten some angry calls, he realized. In this case, carrying that crate gave them the look of some kind of special delivery, and nobody bat an eye.

He ducked a few damp cloths hanging above so he could slip into the curtained back room, but Turner gave a quick jerk of his head to tell the others to follow. As he stepped into the room, he saw the workshop area spread out in all its cluttered glory. This wasn't the smithy, just a place for smaller tools and minor adjustments, like tightening a crossguard or the like. Several large benches and tables crowded the room, and the large man was already shooing one of the apprentices out.

"Is that more of that steel?" The question came abruptly, with no introductions. The deep voice was only half curious, sounding wary as well, and the smith crossed his arms as he saw the crate manhandled in. "Can't be full, if you're carrying it that way."

Turner shook his head, then helped the Wellright brothers heave the crate up onto a workbench. "No, but there's some in there. It's a... construct. A lot of bronze and brass and so on. Thought you might want to take a look at it." He ran his sleeve over his brow, wiping the sweat away from his bangs. The cooler air was making his shirt stick, and the relief from the heat came with a shivery chill.

"Name's Turner," he offered. "Professor Thorpe said the Stonemans might know a little bit about the maker of this thing." He rapped on the edge of the crate while Martin grunted and tried to disassemble it.

That got a raised eyebrow... and then a grunt. "Thorpe? Name doesn't ring a bell." He shrugged and picked up a crowbar, prying open the last of the crate so the carefully-packed wreckage could settle on the table. "Grant Stoneman, but I guess you knew that already... woah." He stared, then called out, "Tad! Get in here! We got another one!"

Nora, who had just stepped in last to observe, immediately picked up on the comment. "Another one? You've seen something like this before?" She glanced aside at Turner, then pressed, "We were actually looking for information on the person who made this."

"No idea," Grant said, running a finger over the damaged shell. "Huh... this metal is just as fine as the rod you gave us. The structure of this is different from the other one though."

Turner jumped in, "Sorry, other one? And you misunderstood, we know who made this, we just heard you might have information about her."

Another voice from behind Turner spoke up, gravely and deeper even than Grant's. "Her? Not a lot of women do the smithy work." A look over his shoulder gave Turner a good view of the sweaty, grungy man stepping in, wearing a thick apron. He didn't look to have been at the forge - belatedly Turner remembered that most smithies didn't operate in the afternoon - but he must have been doing something. If anything, he was even larger than Grant, but their blue eyes and similar jawlines gave their relationship away.

Milo and Martin had already shuffled to the side, and Nora quieted, sensing that perhaps Turner would be a better choice to talk to these gruff men.

"Yeah," Turner affirmed. "A woman named Anne Blakely. She has a connection to the Middleton family, and we know your family had some ties with them." He shook his head, "But it seems like a lot of people don't even realize she exists, or has any connection at all."

Tad grunted, while Grant was still wiggling at one of the broken legs of the construct. Before he could say anything, Tad stepped in to the table to take a look and spoke. "Grant, go get Pops. I guess tell him someone has something to ask about Middleton and brought in another of those weird machines. Oh, and get the wreck while you're at it, bring it down here."

Grant let go of the leg and made a noncommittal mutter, before heading into the next room. The thump of his footsteps up the stairs could barely be heard through the thick wall. This left Tad to open up the construct, taking a long look.

"So, you've seen one of these before?" Turner asked, curiously. Aside from Byron's story, no one else had even hinted at any familiarity with these things.

Tad frowned... then shook his head slowly, reluctantly. "No... not exactly. I thought so, and Grant probably thought the same, but now that I'm looking at this... all the mechanisms are different. And the method of metallurgy, too." He rapped on the bronze casing. "They're both machines made by someone really skilled, but they look pretty different, especially opened up like this."

He rapped on the casing lightly, making a dull thunk against the bronze shell. "I'll wait to say more so Pops and Grant can hear, but just looking at this... it's different. You'll see when we have the other one here to compare. You say a woman named Blakely made this? It's pretty complicated. Surprised I haven't heard of her."

Turner and the others looked at one another, but with a small shake of his head, he told them to stay quiet. Might as well let Tad examine the machine in peace, and tell the whole story once the others were here.

They didn't need to wait for long, either. The footsteps were slow, but Grant emerged a few minutes later with a large box. He set it upon the table while an older man, skin leathery and lined, walked in with the help of a cane. Aside from the limp on his left leg, he still looked very fit for his age, just with white hair and worn skin. Turner guessed his age to be mid-sixties.

"These are the folks who think they know who built these things," Grant said as he shoved the box up next to the wrecked construct.

Tad corrected quickly. "Not both of them. They're different." He tapped the shell of the construct Turner had brought in. "This one is bronze, brass, and a little steel. Pretty heavy for a little thing, even if it's hollow. The metal's not natural either... probably alchemy involved." He gestured to the insides. "And the mechanisms are pretty advanced... never seen anything like it, but they don't make a lot of sense. It's not like the other one."

The older man, Pops, grunted. Definitely related to these two taciturn sorts. He was looking over Turner and the group while Tad spoke, tapping his cane. Finally, in a raspy voice, he asked, "And you said Blakely, did you?"

Turner and the others had instinctively straightened up when this man walked in. Aged or not, he had an air of seriousness and wisdom that the group couldn't ignore. Turner spoke for them with a more polite inflection. "Yes, sir. She built the one we brought in, and we know she's connected to Middleton. Have you heard of her?"

Pops tapped his cane on the floor again, making a dull thud. "Heard of her? Yes. My father spoke about her once... when he was drunk. I have to make sure..." His vest had some large pockets, and he must have grabbed the picture frame he produced before he came down. It was old, the dark wood faded a little, and it held a grainy black and white photograph in it. The kind Turner had only heard about, back when photography was still new. "Can you point her out in this picture?"

Nora tensed. As far as she knew, none of them had actually seen her. Turner really needed to tell her about what had happened. For now it was a fortunate coincidence, though he might have been able to guess even without having met Blakely. He had to tilt the photograph in the lamplight to have a good angle to see, but it didn't take him long.

"That one," he said, tapping at the woman in the photo. It was a group shot of about thirty people, and a good third of them were women, all dressed in practical breeches, vests, and shirts as if ready for a hike or adventure. Even black and white, though, he could tell which one was Blakely. "She barely looks older now, but it's that one. I'm guessing the man next to her is James Middleton, huh?"

Pops nodded, "That's right. So she's still alive, eh? Wasn't sure I believed dad's stories, heh. Sounded like he was half-dreaming when he said it." The old man tugged the photo back into his vest with a sigh. "That's unfortunate."

"Pops, what's this about?" Grant asked, as he finished unloading the box. The contraption that he'd revealed was different all right. Complicated, but even more wrecked than what Turner had brought in. Also, it was very clearly made of different materials.

The older Stoneman tugged a stool into place and eased down onto it. "Something my father said," he mumbled, repeating that again. Turner worried his age was making it hard to recall, but the next words put him at ease. "Before you two were born. He talked about Blakely. He said that all the things he did, all the stories told about Middleton, they were just a cover for finding her."

And just like that, everyone in the room was looking at the old man. James Middleton was such a famous adventurer that almost everyone knew at least a few of his stories. Half of them were probably exaggerated, but it was still just taken as fact that he had been one of the greatest explorers of the early twenty-first century.

Tad had to interrupt anyway. He rapped on the casing, "Hold on, Pops. This thing... the bronze does have a patina, but it can't be more than a year old, probably less. I think these folks are lying, this can't be fifty or sixty years old."

Pops grunted, and with a little whap, smacked Tad on the shoulder with his cane. "Don't interrupt, boy! I'm getting to that!"

He cleared his throat. "As I was saying. Anne Blakely and James Middleton were engaged, according to Pa. And I don't mean just convenience. They loved one another. Deeply. Isabetta married Middleton later, but even she knew she was his second love. It was so intense, she accepted it... and helped him chase her down. The man couldn't stop himself."

Grant opened his mouth to ask a question, but Tad elbowed him, so all that came out was a wheeze. Milo wisely shut his own mouth, seeing that and the glare that Pops gave the man.

"As I was saying," Pops grumbled. "They were deeply in love, but only together on the first expedition. I'm not sure when it happened, but they'd been traveling for some time already, when some encounter went wrong. Pa didn't say where, but I'd guess somewhere in the south, deep in the jungles. Lots of primitive tribes there. Dangerous. Middleton was hurt... hurt bad. Dying, bad."

Now Grant and Tad settled in. They'd never heard this story about Middleton. Neither had Turner... or any of his crew. Even Nora frowned, waiting to see where Pops was going with this.

The old man made a gesture with his cane. "Whatever happened, Anne Blakely stayed with him the entire time. They tried everything, but I don't know what that means. The important part is that Blakely kicked everyone out of the cabin and said she'd do it herself. And then... she did. Two days later, Middleton walked out of his room under his own power. Exhausted, but alive. And Anne was right there with him, looking smug as can be."

Grant and Tad exchanged a look, brows knit in confusion. Turner could understand. This woman had saved the life of one of the most famous men in the modern age... and nobody had ever heard of her. It made no sense. It made a great legend.

Pops could see the confusion, and held up his hand. "I know, this doesn't match what I said. Bear with me. As Pa said it, well... something about Anne changed, that day. She didn't smile as much, and she would wander off on her own often. Sometimes for days." Pops fidgeted in his chair. "As Pa said it, she turned sour. He doesn't know how, but one day James stormed over to the group, and said Anne was gone, and they needed to find her and kill her. That it was his responsibility to do it, and his fault."

"What?" Milo blurt out, but Pops didn't scold him for that. Instead, the old man nodded.

"Yeah, that's what I thought, too," he continued. "But from what Pa said, well... all those adventures were just the things that happened while they chased her down. They were still chasing her last I heard. But that was decades ago, before Pa died." He looked at the wreckage. "He said she was a genius alchemist and tinkerer... and a powerful witch."

Grant scratched his head. "An alchemist, a tinkerer, and a witch? All three? That seems like a lot," he muttered. Tad, however, was more thoughtful.

Turning to the wreck, Tad rapped on the shell again. "Bronze too perfect a cast, steel with no sign of being worked... that's alchemy. Mechanisms to move it, that's tinkering. And whatever drives it... I guess that's witchcraft." Unlike some, he took the whole witchcraft idea in stride, without any hint of disbelief.

Turner took a deep breath. "That does match what we know of her. So he chased her up until he retired, huh?" He shook his head, realizing the stroke of luck they'd had in running into her. Or bad luck, from a certain point of view.

"And after!" Pops declared, lifting his cane. "His son, Tristan? He did the same thing, he just wasn't as successful. We even bankrolled them for a little bit, until they found their own way to do it. The interest from the loan helped pay for this shop!" He chuckled, then frowned. "But the children of some of the other crew, they kept hunting, too. Some of the other famous adventurers you may know... they're just hunting for Blakely. Got them killed, usually. Vale's Sentry all went down with Tristan, too."

Nora stiffened, and Milo and Martin immediately looked at Turner. Turner's own shoulders tensed, but he kept himself from blurting out anything right away. He took another breath to steady himself before he asked, "What do you mean by that? Vale disappeared ten years ago."

Pops made a dismissive wave with one hand. "Bah. She just didn't tell anyone where she was going. The youngest Middletons, Tristan and his family, all set out after some... I don't know. Vale'd been working with them for years with her own team. She hitched a ride, and then the ship never came back. Pity... that was the end of the Middletons. The entire family, kids and all, eaten by the wildlands."

Of course Turner had heard about the final Middleton expedition. Most people had heard of Tristan Middleton launching from Durocor, the oldest and greatest city in what is now the frontier. Most had also heard they never returned. Nobody had mentioned Elina Vale was on the ship, and Stoneman had just dropped it as if it were common knowledge.

"I see," Turner said, speaking slowly and pondering all this.

Nora broke in, well aware of how Turner must be feeling. "You said you had another machine there. Where did that come from? How is it different?"

Tad took up speaking now, still giving Pops a strange look. "This thing? Take a look. Someone off in the frontier found it half-buried in a hillside, like it had been thrown there, about two years ago." He beckoned the group over. "It's fundamentally different in a lot of ways, and even more strange in some."

Turner shook himself out of his shock as he heard that, taking a step over to the crumpled heap. It did look like some kind of machine, but any legs it had once had were now snapped off. He could see some jagged struts, maybe to hold those legs, but this one looked far more fragile than the one they'd fought. Most of its body was splintered wood, something lightweight and light-colored. A metal frame of slim tubes, thin and fragile-looking yet somehow unbroken, gave form to the shape, making it angular and boxy. It was about the size of a hunting dog.

Tad rapped on the wooden chassis, then tugged it open, a hinge on one side allowing access to the innards. "Just look."

It was very different, indeed. A few metallic struts inside, with a lot of crushed wooden ones. Wires of copper connected some components, and a few thin rubber hoses, leading up to a complex block with a few small cylinders of...

"Is that an engine?" Turner blurt out in disbelief. "We fought a larger one that had a boiler and a steam engine, but that looks more like..."

Tad nodded, "I'm surprised you recognized it. Yeah, it's a combustion engine, that's what they're called. When we first got it, the thing still smelled of spirits. Drinking spirits. It runs on alcohol of some kind, we think, but it's too smashed to work, and nobody has a clue how to fix it. It's a kind of engine we haven't seen before."

He traced a finger to a clunky-looking box, with a spiraled wire leading out of it. "We think this controlled it somehow, but we don't know. We can't see any real use of it. But that isn't the most frightening thing."

Grant helpfully tugged out one of the torn pieces that was already sheared off. "Here's one of the support struts... we think. For an arm or leg or something? Take a look." He held out a thin tube, about six inches long, of what looked like a dull silver at first.

When Turner took hold of the tube, he blinked. It wasn't silver, but had a dull, muted grey color. It was also... incredibly light, and cool to the touch. He barely felt any heft to it. Yet a quick wobble showed it didn't flex as much as wood, even if it swayed more than a steel rod would have.

"It's ultra light, incredibly strong... and it doesn't tarnish," Grant explained. "But Tad just said the other metal was alchemically worked. This wasn't. This is machined, but not by anything we know."

Turner could only shake his head. "This is... I don't know what to think. I don't think it's Blakely's. Maybe someone trying to emulate her?"

"Ironic," Nora noted. "Since we at first thought she herself was the one doing the emulating." She said it halfheartedly though, her eyes lost in thought.

Tad rumbled, "Do you think we could take this to the Academy to get it looked at?" He pointed to the wreck that Turner had brought in. "We'll pay you for it. More than the materials worth."

At that offer, Turner shrugged. "We were going to sell it to the Academy anyway, but who knows when they'll get around to it? Much easier for us to sell it to you." He sighed, shaking his head. "You've... all been a great help. We won't take any more of your time, but we'll try to be in touch if we find anything out, if you want."

Tad waved, "This is your hunt, not ours, but you've given us a lot to look at. We'd be glad to." He was much friendlier now that they'd given him something to work on.

Turner smiled thinly, "Thanks. I think we need to take a while to digest all of this."

Pops grunted, "Be careful how involved you get, boy. Vale's hardly the only casualty of this vendetta." He tapped his cane on the floor, then pointed at Turner's chest.

"Some things are best left alone."

"I don't know why my uncle is so set on treating you well, but I do apologize," the younger Byron was saying.

The stressful day had waned after names and points of contact had been exchanged. With this, Turner had fully intended to tell the group about his encounter upon settling into the sitting room at Byron's estate... but instead, the young noble had called them all to his much more formal entertainment room in the main hall.

This was much nicer, and cooler at least. The rug laid out on the hardwood floor necessitated the group remove their shoes, and some servants had laid cloth over the plush furniture so they wouldn't dirty it. Turner didn't take this as an insult... they group was grimy and soiled from hiking around the city in the heat all day, and even Byron himself merely sighed about it.

Paintings adorned the walls, and a grand fireplace was at one end of the room. Various pieces of artwork sat upon sofa tables and small alcove tables, from vases to small busts. He even had two display suits of armor, though Turner could tell they were more for show than actual use.

Aware that he was supposed to speak, Turner shook his head, "It is understandable. And truth be told, we would like our stay here to be kept quiet. Really, just putting us up somewhere comfortable is fine."

Byron looked pained, the young man flashing distaste on his face before composing himself. "I see what you are saying, however there remains a certain duty for me to fulfill. I... what is that racket?"

Loud thudding could be heard outside, and a few shouts, but moments later it quieted. Byron shook his head in annoyance, took a breath, and attempted to resume.

"As I was saying, a certain duty remains for me to fulfill. If you do not want the more elaborate accommodations, would you at least consider-"

The door opened at the far end of the room, and again Byron let out an exasperated sigh. "I told you that we were not to be disturbed! Surely it can wait for a few more minutes?" Now he was showing some annoyance and anger, turning about to confront the servant that had interrupted him.

Only it was not a servant. In the doorway, closing it behind her, was a young woman. She strolled in without a care for the temper of the lord of the house, her bright red ponytail fluttering behind her and her stride measured and even.

"I believe you have something that does not belong to you," Anne stated, looking directly at Turner. "A quick check on Reginald showed him to be in two places, which was rather curious. One of them is here, which means you have a piece of him.

"I would like it returned. Now."