Prologue
A small crowd gathered near the ornithopter landing pad, murmuring, laughing, chatting... waiting for the passengers to disembark.
Since Arcvale was the hub of the surrounding area, there were always comings and goings from its transportation station to lands far away. The airships that soared through the skies like galleons of old, carried more than people though, since their holds were laden with cargoes of all kinds, bound from the outlands to the dynamic and burgeoning city of Arcvale.
Being magnificently elegant in the sky—but worse than useless on the ground—airships had formed an alliance with the ornithopter companies, and now both existed synergistically to the benefit of all.
Chatter increased as the first passengers made their way carefully down the iron gangway, their steps clattering over the iron fastenings, their voices rising as they neared their final destination. Their luggage would follow, of course, to be collected at one of the many surrounding buildings.
The entire process would consume at least an hour. After that, the travellers would leave for home or business, the cargoes would be unloaded, the sound of the arrival bells would fade, and quiet would descend, remaining until it was time to do it all over again.
Were one to assume that on this particular day there would be nothing of overt interest taking place, one would, however, be quite wrong.
Slightly less than an hour after the ornithopter wings had hushed to stillness, a figure appeared at the door. Not a crew member, for certain. This man wore no cap or insignia,carried no baggage with gold initials, and his clothing was an unimpressive dark grey.
However, as he neared the platform at the end of the gangway, an observer might pay closer attention. His jacket might be muted in colour, but in fit it was perfection. As was the pale blue silk cravat gently folded inside the collar. The breeches, of the same dark grey, were clearly custom made, and his boots, black as night, gleamed as the lights of the Cloudyard illuminated his passage to the ground.
He was tall, of course, with black hair that fell past his shoulders and stirred slightly in the evening breeze. If you got close enough, you could easily see the amber glints in his dark eyes.
He carried no luggage, walked with a loose but determined gait, and ignored the everyday activity around him in the Cloudyard. Had anyone approached him closely enough, they might have caught a glimpse of an envelope in his jacket pocket, but—as if to prevent that unlikely occurrence—he casually covered the opening with his hand.
As he passed two porters, one nudged the other. “Hey. You see ‘im?” He nodded toward the solitary figure.
“Yup. Must’a fallen asleep on the ‘thopter.”
The other man shook his head. “Not ‘im,” he replied. “They says he never sleeps more’n half the coggleblasted night, neither.”
“Hah,” his friend snorted. “A likely story. Don’t believe any of it.”
“’Tis true. You don’t recognise ‘im?”
“No, should I?”
The first man leaned toward his friend and lowered his voice. “That there’s Lucas Ashcombe, I swear. Sir Lucas Ashcombe, in the flesh.”
“Ashcombe? You mean Silas Ashcombe the Forge-Marshal’sbrother? Well, that’s odd, innit? I swear I ‘eard he’d gone and weren’t never comin’ back to Arcvale.”
“Yeah, I ‘eard that as well.” He scratched his head. “Wonder what e’s doin’ back ‘ere...?”
The man himself, well aware of the conversation though the specific words were murmured, sighed and smiled a little. He’d expected no less, and would have been quite disappointed if it had turned out to be otherwise. After all, it wasn’t every day that another Ashcombe set foot in Arcvale.
Especially not the one who had sworn never to return.
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.
