The Clockwork Spider
Duke Markus von Himmelman, son of Lady Margret De’Mechaump and Lord Phredrick von Himmelman, Baron of Lower East Spannerton, Duke of Topside, and a Welcome Lord in the court of Prince Reinheart himself, was furious. He stormed about his office like a madman, pulling his watch out of his vest pocket and clicking it open every few steps. When the clockwork timepiece provided nothing less than further frustration, he would stuff it back into his vest, turn sharply on his heel, and begin stomping in a different direction across the large carpet.
As he paced, he passed shelves of varying shades of oak and pine. He had paid good money for these shelves; each was hand crafted for a particular purpose. Some were made with shallow divots that held a specific amulet or goblet with exacting precision. Others had smooth and elegant stands carefully fitted into the shelf that gripped shards of ancient pottery, holding them up like trophies.
Each shelf was decorated with elegant trim and lattice work, and a careful observer with a practiced eye might notice that the ornamentation itself told a story; some brief account of a harrowing chase out of deepest India or fearful journey to the frozen poles. Sometimes heroic, other times horrific, the iconography always seemed to end the same way; with a piece of treasure that now held a revered place in the owners heart, and a shelf of its own.
They were cold comfort to the Duke now. There were many other shelves in his mansion, but his mind was concerned with only one. An empty one.
It had been half a year—half!—before news of Schussel and his crew reached the Duke’s ears. He had hired them in the Spring, but somehow they had managed to delay so completely that it was early Summer before they had even left for Africa. Now the Duke was pacing his study in late Autumn, waiting for his hired explorers to finally make their way up the great slope of Cliffside and ring at his Villa’s door.
Of course they were late. He should have expected it from the moment they started to give their numerous excuses about leaving. First it was faulty equipment—some mumbo jumbo about broken ventilators and weak gyrospanners that the Duke couldn’t have cared less about. Then there was some legal trouble with booking passage when the King had demanded all expeditions to Africa pay a twenty percent fee for some political embargo. Markus finally had to get personally involved. It wasn’t the money that irked him—he had so much that he rarely needed to pay for anything—it was the fact he had to call the Airship Captain personally and mention a few choice names like a common merchant that had been so irritating.
Then, the day before they were scheduled to leave, the airship broke down, and the money to repair once more had to come straight from Markus’s own pocket. It was one thing after another with these damn scroungers. They probably hadn’t even found the right temple.
Perhaps something had gone wrong?
It was not the first time the worrying thought had crept into his mind. Schussel’s team were professionals, but if even one of them had dared to breathe a word of the expedition to anyone, it could have easily gotten back to Lord Klaus or even Lord Malvanya, and either one would have stopped at nothing to claim the spoils for themselves. After all, why argue with the League of Gentlemen Explorers when a small band of thugs in a dark alley could net you the prize just as well? And that was even without considering the hundreds of minor nobles and families like the Popomuses who could have caused a great deal of fuss.
No, Markus shook his head again. He had been clear—painfully clear—to Schussel and his crew that secrecy was paramount. He was paying extra for secrecy, far more than was reasonable. Surely they had understood the need for discretion. Only seven people knew about the mission; him, and Schussel’s team.
Markus continued to pace. He could have paid more. He could have purchased the airship outright if he had wanted to. Money wasn’t a resource he was short on…it was time that was his enemy. Time and reputation were the two things he could not spare.
Markus stopped his pacing in front of a thin brown jug, intricately sculpted and carved with scenes of a great battle. The two small handles were gently gripped by two thin wooden hands that were fitted perfectly into the shelf. The surrounding decorations depicted a massive stretch of Arabian sand, with the mighty pyramids stretching towards the sky in the distance. Camel trains and tents speckled the landscape, with a single figure in the foreground digging alone in the wastes.
The Duke’s hand gently caressed the rough clay surface, feeling the small chips and cracks that had developed over the many years the jug had sat in the depths of the desert. His guide had made many eldritch signs upon seeing the jug, warning Markus of an ancient legend; that there was once a great warrior whose soul had been caught in the dyes that painted this jug. Perhaps someday before he died, Markus would break the jug and see if the legends were true; Perhaps the ghost of an ancient warrior-king would be at his command.
But he had no need of warrior-kings. He had friends, contacts, servants, and money. What could a ghost possibly do that he could not? His shelves were lined with countless examples of ancient legend and architectural poetry. He was building the greatest collection in the whole Empire. Old gemstones that once adorned heathen temples sat packed in crates that littered his mansion, along with marvelous armors from ancient kingdoms and extravagant cloths of every color from long lost civilizations. Metal tools and crafts born from alchemical processes long forgotten sat gathering dust, their purpose long since forgotten. Scholars and scientists would pay large sums of money just to be able to look at his treasures. Someday, he might let them.
Someday, when he finally received his due…
But that would come later. At the moment, this very day, all he wanted was for his servant to knock on his door and tell him that Mister Schussel was catching his breath in the drawing room with a small box clutched in his hands. A small sliver of wry humor crept into Markus’s thoughts. Here he was, a Duke of Topside, and he was as anxious as a child on Christmas for a low-born explorer to enter his Villa. His mother would have been appalled, had she lived to see him now.
A sudden lance of bitterness shot though the Duke’s mind. Of course she would have. Both his parents were far more interested in lineage and breeding than anything else, and lived quite well under the grace their blood availed for them. For Duke Markus, things were not so simple.
Had he been subject to some curse? Had some infernal demon twisted his mind so that he could see what no other peer seemed to notice? For whatever reason, he could see how the times were changing, and what the new world would require.
At long last, a tentative knock on the door broke Markus from his thoughts. Drawing himself up, he took a deep breath, smoothing his fine silk shirt with his hands.
“Come in,” he said, turning to face the door. The butler opened the door, bowing low before stepping across the threshold.
“My lord,” he said with a thick drawl. “A Mister Schussel and guest are here to see you. I’ve put them in the West Game room.”
And guest? No matter. His second, perhaps, or the member of his team who personally found the prize. What mattered was that Schussel was finally here. Markus ran out of his study, decorum forgotten in his eagerness to lay eyes on his property. Like a madman he ran through the hallways of his Villa, skipping past doors and arches, sliding through ballrooms and dining halls, until at last he reached the massive Great Hall that separated the east and west wings of his house.
Finally, he reached the West Game room. Collecting himself before he entered, Markus straightened his clothing as the passion and longing on his face vanished to be replaced with an affected dis-interest—the armor and shield of every noble. Calmly, as though not expecting company, Markus pushed open the large double-doors.
The game room was filled with the results of twenty-nine years of adventure and safari from all over the world. Gorillas and lions from Africa, elephants and tigers from Asia, and even some of the darker beasts from the deepest wilds of South America; like the head of a fiendish Hodag, it’s fangs still razor sharp; or the stuffed body of a horrible Ahuizotl, the clawed tail raised to strike, it’s human-like eyes still glinting evilly.
Markus pulled up short as he entered the room.
Schussel was here, all right, and he looked awful. The thick stocky man looked like he had lost a fight with a bear. His left eye was swollen shut, and his right arm hung uselessly at his side. His face was covered in bruises and cuts, and his long matted hair was twisted in filthy knots. He looked ready to collapse.
But still he stood, his left arm gripped tightly by his guest—a short but muscular Italian with long black hair. His eyes were thin and brittle, framed by a strong jaw and firm mouth. He smiled tightly when Markus entered, not showing any teeth. “Duke Markus von Himmelman,” he gave a small bow, spreading his arms wide like an old french courtier. “Thank you for meeting with us. I’m afraid your friend has spilled some of his blood on the carpet, I wiped up as much as I could.”
Markus had been a noble his whole life; his tutors had taught him well in the ways of nobility, and it would take more than a simple surprising twist of circumstance to rattle his nerve. Sighing lightly at the imposition, Markus made his way to the small drinking cabinet next to the pistols. “I would hardly call this man a friend,” Markus said. “I merely have him under contract. Can I offer you anything? I’m afraid I don’t have much beer left, but I suppose I could stand to part with some port.”
A thin sliver of metal, no thicker than a folded sheet of paper, flew past Markus’s throat and buried itself into the wood next to the Port bottle. Slowly and carefully, Markus turned about. The man hadn’t moved.
“Please step back from the pistols,” his smile flickered like a leaf in the wind. “I am not quite a fool, and I know you aren’t one either.”
Markus glanced at the rack of pistols hanging on the wall next to the drinks cabinet, as though he had just noticed they were there. Nodding, he raised his hands in a passive gesture of submission. He carefully strode to a large chair next to the fireplace, and settled himself in it. “I suppose you won’t tell me who you work for? Lord Malvanya, perhaps?”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” the man shook his head.
“Perhaps who told your employer about the expedition? Look, might I ask that you let that man sit down,” Markus gestured towards the large couch that faced the fireplace. “I would hate for him to break something if he should faint.”
The room held its breath for a few moments before the Italian shoved Schussel onto the couch. He kept his stare on Markus, his eyes sharp as ice. “You know why I’m here,” he said, his hands flexing near his belt. “The expedition you funded found the Clockwork Spider, and now it’s mine. If you want it, you will have to pay a hefty price.”
“Hundreds, I should think,” Markus muttered, his brow furrowing.
“Thousands,” the man countered as his hands slipped behind his back. “Or I will take it to my employer as promised, and the treasure you value so highly will slip from your hands like sand in the wind.”
“A lovely double cross,” Markus nodded, after a pause. “I can only presume that you will then fade into the mists of Cliffside, never to be seen by me nor by your employer ever again?”
“Just so,” the man cocked an eyebrow.
“How mysterious,” Markus smiled, rubbing his mouth with his hand. “Especially since you appear to have aped your conversation from the words of ‘The Harlequin Affair.’ Just re-printed this last week, I believe.”
The man’s eye twitched. “What?”
Markus’s laugh was light. “Oh come now. It’s one of the best selling stories in the entire Empire. Thought of yourself as a roguish and dangerous bandit, did you? Enamored with ‘Le Renard,’ and his swashbuckling adventures in the alleyways and gutters of the big city? I have it; It was Lord Klaus who hired you, wasn’t it? He never could resist that old romantic twaddle. He’d hire a vaudevillian over an assassin thinking they acted more like a professional.”
“I could still put a knife in your eye,” the man hissed.
“Impressively too,” Markus glanced back at his drinks cabinet, “but that’s hardly the style you’re after, is it?” Markus clicked his tongue in disappointment. “Le Renard would never do that, no. He would sit down and talk with me to discern what I have to offer you instead of the Spider. A job, for example.”
“Eh?” The Italian blinked. “What are you on about?”
“You’ve caught yourself, I’m afraid,” Markus shrugged. “There is only one Clockwork Spider, so you will have to either disappoint me or Lord Klaus. If you give me the spider, I will pay you what I promised dear Schussel there, and provide you protection from Klaus’s…well, I doubt it would be fury, the poor man gets distracted so easily these days. Irritation, perhaps?”
“Hey,” Schussel groaned, struggling to protest. “We did your job.”
“And I wish I could say satisfactorily,” Markus sighed, “but this enterprising gentleman seems to have ‘beaten you to the punch,’ as they say.” Markus leaned towards the Italian. “On the other hand, if you take the Clockwork Spider to Lord Klaus, I will contact my very close friend, Constable Othmar. He has very good detectives, you know, and that interesting little blade you left in my drinking cabinet cannot be too hard to trace. Give him and his men a few hours, and I promise he will know exactly who you are, and where you live. And he owes me a favor. I promise you, he will turn out the entire Cliffside guard to hunt you and your friends down like rats in a sewer.”
The Italian gave a slow nod. “How much?”
“Well, his team was six people in total, and it was quite a long and expensive expedition…the agreement was for two thousand pounds, I believe. Isn’t that right, Schussel?”
“Damn you,” the beaten explorer spat through bloodied lips. “Damn your eyes and teeth.”
“Two thousand?” The Italian gaped, his poise vanishing like leaves in the wind. “Two thousand?”
“Mind you,” Markus pulled out his pocketwatch, “I was expecting to have the Clockwork Spider in hand right now. Perhaps some incentive? Two thousand less two hundred for every five minutes between now and delivery. I’d hurry, if I were you.”
The Italian blinked, he gaped, and then ran from the room, his legs carrying him down the hall and out of the Villa with remarkable speed.
Markus watched him run before turning to the wheezing body of Schussel. “Now, as for you good sir. I hope you are not too badly damaged. I suppose I should offer you a brandy.”
“Rot your brandy,” Schussel moaned, shifting painfully on the couch.
“Oh, none of that, now,” Markus smiled as he pulled a bottle of brandy off the top shelf and poured a tall glass. “You’ll still get your two thousand. Plus an extra thousand for the inconvenience.”
“Aye?” Through puffy and pain-filled eyes, Schussel studied the Duke as he took the offered glass. “You going to double-cross him?”
“Certainly not!” Markus sniffed. “Five-thousand pounds is certainly more than I was expecting to pay, but hardly significant. I don’t suppose he worked alone?”
“Nah,” Schussel coughed as he took a long gulp. “There were three others. We hadn’t even finished unloading the ship before they jumped us.”
“Ah,” Markus sighed. “Well, that will be interesting, then. I wonder how much he’ll tell his friends that I paid him…well, no matter. What matters is I get the Clockwork Spider.”
For a moment, the two sat in silence, listening to the fire crackling in the fireplace. Then Schussel coughed once more. “Begging your pardon, your Grace, but I find myself wondering…The League of Gentleman Explorers has worked with a lot of different folk in its time. I’ve seen quite a bit…Why aren’t you double-crossing that vagabond? He’ll sure as soap double-cross you if he gets the chance.”
Markus’s eyes snapped to Schussel’s. “Do I look like the sort of man who would do such a thing?”
“Looks can be deceiving,” Schussel muttered, “and you’ll forgive me, your Grace, but in my experience, most of the folk who double-cross look a lot like you.”
“Quite true!” Markus laughed in spite of himself. “I hear in your accent a bit of Kleidstown? Not the most wealthy spot in the Empire, I believe. I can imagine you’re a bit of a name in your old street, people talking about good old Schussel, who went to Cliffside to seek his fortune…”
“I won’t say your wrong, sir,” Schussel’s eyes narrowed.
“Years ago, you’d have had no better than a… a flat on the lower banks. Now, thanks to Prince Reinheart’s passions, in a few years you may be as wealthy as any nobleman. Why, already a Duke of Cliffside is paying you handsomely for your services. I won’t deny that killing you crossed my mind, but…do you know, I do believe I’m cursed.”
Schussel shifted uncomfortably at the Duke’s admission, only to laugh uncomfortably. “Your Grace, I’ve gone into so many a deep jungle and ancient temple, and I haven’t seen a real curse yet. What’s this Clockwork Spider that makes it cursed?”
“Oh, not cursed by the spider,” Markus smiled, “cursed by fate. Fortune, perhaps. Do you know, I was fascinated by these ancient trinkets long before King Wilhelm announced his new Age of Adventure? I’d spent most of my youth finding contacts and connections that all the clumsy Lords and Ladies of the court could only dream of. Did you know, I’m good friends with your Master Widestock?”
“Really?” Schussel’s took another drink. “Can’t say I’m too surprised, your Grace. He’s head of the League. Knows quite a few noble-folk.”
“Not as well as I know him,” Markus smiled. “I’ve invited him to balls before. Hunting trips. In less than half a year, my little eccentric childish hobby will be the new entry-point. Like the spices of the East, and then the gold of the Americas, now the histories of the Southern Continents will drive noble and commoner alike to new heights of hope. With the League’s help…with your help, Schussel, my collection will blossom into one of the most lucrative and powerful collections in the Empire. The Prince himself already speaks to me regularly. He even stopped by unannounced, once, to look at my collection. He said I must have a knack for exploration.”
He leveled his gaze at the beaten Schussel. “Do you know what my ‘knack’ is? It is a frustrating awareness that I am completely and utterly dependent on the lower-class.”
“Oh?” Schussel took another drink. “I don’t know what you mean, your Grace.”
“‘Your Grace,’” Markus stood up in a huff, moving to the drink’s cabinet. “Yes, I’m a Duke, but Dukes knew nothing of jungles or deserts. I’ve never climbed a mountain or scaled a ravine. Other people do those things, and do them well. So, I hire the best, and since the League of Gentlemen Explorers knows me well before the other Lords first knocked on their doors, I know who to ask, and how.” He turned to face Markus again with a full glass of brandy. “I remain resolute, my money comes from the pocket of an investor, not a dilettante.”
“That’s good to know, your Grace.” Schussel gave a slow nod before setting the empty glass down. “Certainly more gentlemanly than this Lord Klaus. He seems quite insistent on getting the thing. Seems quite a bit of fuss over something so small.”
“It’s not the size that makes it valuable,” Markus smiled wistfully. “It’s what it represents.”
“Oh aye? And what’s that?”
“For others, I presume it means the key to a legendary machine,” Markus waved his hand dismissively. “Perhaps an unstoppable juggernaut or ancient airship. For me, however, it represents the prize artifact in my new Museum of Ancient Artifica. It is almost finished, and will be the greatest museum of its kind in the Empire. People shall come from miles around to see the ancient wonders of the world I will collect. Why, with all the treasures I own now, I won’t be able to fill half of it!”
“Seems a lot of effort for things you don’t have yet,” Schussel coughed. “Why?”
Markus took a long drink. Unbidden, his mind drifted to the claustrophobic court, where Dukes, Earls, and Heirs all talked day in and day out about their little projects. They gossiped and muttered about each other, finding cracks to slip knives through, and moments of distraction to hide their drops of poison. They would never become King or Queen, that avenue of power was closed to them, but they were always searching, hunting for someway to prove to their fellows that they were superior.
“Why?” Markus swallowed, his mask once more firmly set in place. “Because fortune favors those who plan ahead. I know the common folk think of the League as dottering old dilettantes who spend their days with bad tobacco and rambling stories, but I know what you really are: pioneers on the boundary-line of the future. Old sands are being swept away and shadowy forests are being chopped down. The ancient Dragons of superstition are being slain, and I plan on finding every one of them. With, of course, the help of anyone in the League of Gentlemen Explorers who is willing to join me?”
Schussel barely hesitated before reaching out and shaking Duke Markus’s offered hand.