Authors: Sharon Joss
Simon strode briskly, weaving his way past heavy horse and
pushcart traffic along the main thoroughfare as he and Arvel followed Figgsy’s
directions to the shipwrights. Georgian-style brick homes, warehouses and an
astonishing number of pubs lined the wide streets. The stink of coal smoke and
raw sewage permeated the thick fog.
Groups of hungry-looking children loitered on the street corners,
shifty-eyed and far too casual to be up to any good. Snatchers by the looks of
them. At twelve, he’d been just as desperate, and even twenty years later, the
memories of his life in Brussels still lingered.
He’d slept in a doorway near the smithy’s forge just off the Grand
Place at night to keep warm. Bits of paper and rags were all he had to mend the
holes in his shoes and did nothing to keep out the chill. By November, he was
certain that if he didn’t starve first, he’d freeze to death. The bigger boys staked
out the better shops, hoping to snatch a purse or lift a wallet from an
unsuspecting mark, but Simon preferred the reflected warmth provided by the
fire, even as the drovers and farmers were less likely targets.
Simon held his neck scarf over his nose as he studied some of the
nicer homes that faced the riverfront. Two, at most three stories, they appeared
solidly built of red brick or yellow stone with red tile roofs. Most had large
windows facing the riverfront, and although modest, looked well-maintained; the
sort of residence where local businessmen might live with their families.
Arvel caught him looking. “Forget it. There’s nothing to steal
here. All the decent places are boarded up.”
He waved off Arvel’s comment. “I know what I’m doing.”
They neared a two-story, soot-covered, stucco building, behind
which a cacophony of hammers and steam-powered riveters made further discussion
difficult. Arvel led the way, and as soon as Simon closed the door behind them,
the racket faded somewhat. A bell above the door announced their presence.
Simon prowled the foyer, inspecting the contents of the built-in cubbyholes,
which covered every inch of one wall from floor to ceiling. Each contained a
different assortment of nails, screws, and assorted bits of small hardware. After
a moment, a heavyset fellow in a dusty brown corduroy jacket popped out from a
room behind the counter, and Arvel apprised the fellow of their predicament.
As they spoke, Simon gazed through a heavily-barred picture window,
which overlooked the Thames and provided an excellent view of Greenwich, the
city directly across the river. A tripod-mounted telescope centered in front of
the window offered an even better view.
He peered into the eyepiece to sort out the view. Based on what he
remembered of Emile’s charts, he must be looking at the cattle market. He was too
far north to see the hospital, where the Queen’s yacht would be docked. He swung
the telescope around and focused it downriver, trying to spy the cultivated
gardens surrounding the Royal Naval College, but the angle was wrong. He made a
mental note to take the ferry over to Greenwich as soon as possible.
By the time Arvel and the smithy completed their negotiations, the
heavy mist outside had turned to a light rain. As they made their way back to
the air hangars, Arvel gave Simon the bad news.
“They do have parts we can use, but if they rework them to my
specifications, it will take at least ten days. I know Rudy can get it done
much faster. He’s agreed to let Rudy use his furnace and tools for three days.
But he wants one hundred and twenty pounds more than we’ve got. Half now, and
the rest in three days.”
“Will you be finished in three days?”
Arvel winced. “Maybe.”
The air show was five days away. “Not much time for practice
maneuvers.”
“If we don’t get that gondola working, the
Il Colibri
is nothing more than an observation ship. Without it, we
might as well launch the
Calabrone
.”
Il Calabrone
was the hot air balloon
they’d brought with them. Like its bumblebee namesake, the black and gold
balloon had four pair of quiet, battery-powered propellers that maneuvered it
in any direction. “Pay the gentleman, Arvel. I’ll have the rest of the money in
a couple days.”
“If we sold the fireworks, we’d have enough.”
Simon shook his head. “Absolutely not. We need them.
I need them.
Leave the money to me.”
“Just don’t get caught before the show.”
He gave Arvel a mirthless grin. “When have I ever?” They both knew
he
had
gotten caught. Twice. But that
was a long time ago.
#
Brussels, Belgium
November 1851
The first snow of the season had fallen during the night, and the
clarion ring of the smithy’s iron hammers filled the frigid air. Simon breathed
on his icy fingers; the sensation of his steamy breath offering only a passing
moment’s respite from the biting cold. He’d had his eye on one fellow in
particular for nearly an hour. A short, small-boned, older man with a cane and
a gold watch he checked frequently. Simon felt confident in his improved technique,
and even if he fumbled the job, he was certain the old fellow could never
follow him once he reached the rooftops.
Ignoring his hunger pangs, he waited until the old man reached the
front of the queue to speak to the smithy. Simon edged closer, trying to make
out what they were saying. Over the last few months, his French had improved
and he'd learned enough Flemish to get by. The old man wanted a special tool
made, he said, and when he laid out a drawing of what he wanted on the smithy’s
worktable, Simon made his move.
Simon eased behind the fellow, and with a practiced touch, lifted
the watch from the man’s side jacket pocket. That was the knack of it, he’d
learned. Not to snatch, but to
lift
.
But before he could slip away, the man grabbed him by the wrist in
a vise-like grip.
Simon lunged away, but the old git slapped an iron cuff on him and
locked it. The last thing he saw was the old man’s cane coming down to strike
him.
#
Simon awoke with his cheek hard against the window of a moving coach.
His hands and feet had been manacled together. He could not have stood, much
less fled. The need to escape fueled his panic.
“Who are you?” He held up his wrists. “Unlock these!”
Across from him, the old man eyed him with a predatory glare. “You
have a light touch, but you’re stupid.” The man spoke in heavily-accented
English. “I spotted you before you even made your mind up to snatch it.”
Simon glowered at him but said nothing. The man did not appear
threatening, but the cuffs terrified him.
The old man tossed the timepiece into Simon’s lap. “That’s brass,
lad. Not heavy enough by far for gold.” His captor reached into the breast
pocket of his worn suede jacket and pulled out another pocket watch. “This was
what you were after. Nothing worth your effort is ever kept in an outer
pocket.”
He stared at the watch in his lap. “What do you want?”
“I'm curious. Why is a rich English boy living alone on the streets
of Brussels?”
The words slipped out without thinking. "What makes you think
I'm rich?"
The man nodded at Simon's shoes, now scuffed and worn. “Those
shoes of yours cost a good deal when new. What's the matter, did your father
threaten to send you away to boarding school?"
Simon stared resolutely out the window. They'd left the city. Brown
fields, some splattered with deep patches of winter snow stretched across the
flat landscape in either direction, with only the occasional farmhouse or
cottage to be seen. "I don't have to tell you anything."
"Ah, then." The fellow's expression softened. "Trouble
with the law.”
"No, it's nothing like that." The words came tumbling
out. "My parents are dead. I came here to live with my aunt, but she
must’ve moved." Or died.
They all
die
. "I'm on my own.”
The old man made a dubious harrumph. “Not doing a very good job of
it, I’d say. What’s your name?”
He looked out the window. “It doesn't matter.” A bittersweet pain
washed over him. “Simon,. His voice broke.
“Well, Simon, you’re a lousy pickpocket. I saw you juggling in the
square a week ago. Are you a fire mage?”
No one would pay any
attention to a poor street lad juggling on the corner. It was the greenfire
that caught their attention. The sour taste of bile rose at the back of his
throat.
“If I were, you’d be burned to a crisp and I wouldn’t be here now,
would I?”
And my father would still be
alive.
“My mother was." He allowed the mock flames of to emerge from
his fingertips.
“You’ve got good hands. Good coordination. A much better juggler
than thief, I’d say.”
He shrugged. “I grew
up in Ryde. Everyone juggles there.”
“Where they have the big carnival?” The old man looked pleased. “Oh
I’ve heard of it, of course. Always wanted to go. Well, well. Isn’t that
interesting.”
“What?”
The old man sighed, and patted the cane he held across his lap.
“This is the thing of it. I’m not as agile as I used to be. My previous
apprentice died of the cholera this summer. He was a couple years older than
you, but I think you’ll catch on quick enough.”
Whoever he was, he wasn’t the police.
“You remind me of him. He was blond and blue-eyed just like you.”
The old man shook his head, as if unable to believe his own words. “My wife
will have a fit when she sees you, but I think I’ll make you my new apprentice.
Wary, Simon gave the man a sharp look. “Apprentice to what?”
Anything would be better than better than freezing to death.
When the old man grinned, he showed a lot of missing teeth.
“You’ll discover that soon enough.”
He held up his manacled hands. “If that’s the case, unlock me.”
The man shook his head. “It’ll take us a few days to get where
we’re going. I’ll feed you, but you’ll stay locked up until you manage to free
yourself on your own. If you can’t figure it out by the end of the week, I’ll
tie rocks to your feet and throw you into the Sambre River.”
The hard look on the old man’s face held no mercy. A sick chill of
fear coursed through him. “You’re mad.”
“No, lad, I’m Master Benoit. I’m the best thing that ever happened
to you.”
#
Master Benoit brought him to his isolated estate several miles
from the city of Luxembourg. As the driver pulled carriage up the long drive,
Simon whistled at the sheer size of it. The manor reached three stories, with
tall, narrow windows set evenly across the front set into smooth, nearly
seamless stone. A dark slate roof and blue curtains across the windows
complemented the mauve-grey stucco and whitewashed trim. He sat up straighter,
thinking that perhaps Benoit was indeed his benefactor after all.
The old man snorted. “It belongs to my wife's family. It costs a
fortune to heat in the winter, you can be sure.”
But Simon was given no opportunity to see the inside, as still in
chains, Benoit dragged him, around to the back entrance, where the door opened
directly onto the basement stairs. Lit only by the dim light of an oil lantern,
the old man did not hesitate, but led him down the winding stone steps, where
the smells of earth and dampness grew with every step.
Simon shivered in the chill, his apprehension growing with every
step. No good could come by going down here. Perhaps Master Benoit had had been
lying to him all along. But when he hesitated, the Master jerked on the chains
that bound him, and he had no choice but to follow.
They reached the bottom, and Simon could immediately see that the
low-ceilinged room had once been a wine cellar. Now, with only a few dark and
lonely exceptions, the trestles stood empty. Benoit led him across the chamber
to a stout wooden door with a barred window and opened it.
“This is where you’ll stay. At least until you’ve managed to get
yourself out of those cuffs.” He jerked his head toward the open doorway and
gave another jerk on Simon’s chains. “In you go.” Simon quailed at the sight of
the cell; no more than five paces wide and perhaps a dozen deep, entombed by
thick stone walls. In one corner, crouched a cot and a rough-hewn cupboard; in
the other, a bucket. No window, no light.
A dungeon.
When Simon hesitated, the old man grabbed him by his shirt and
shoved him inside, slamming the heavy door behind him. “There’s an extra
blanket in the cupboard. No heat down here, but you won’t freeze.” The Master
slid a heavy bolt across the outside of the door.
"No, you can’t do this! I haven’t done anything!" he protested.
"Please, I'll do whatever you want, just don't leave me here!" He
pounded on the door.
But the Master would not be moved. “I’ll come back when you’ve
calmed down.” And then he left, taking the oil lantern with him.