Pawn, Book 3 of The Turner Chronicles

By Mark Eller

In Betrayed, Aaron Turner defied politicians, defeated child slavers, and saved an entire people from exploitation by Isabella, his adopted country. Now, ten years later, he and Isabella have parted ways. Aaron has moved across the ocean to Jutland, intending to run a men’s clothing store in the small city of Galesword.
Unfortunately, his lawyer and the One God have other plans. An emperor covets him. Heads of governments abhor him. Assassins and slavers and pirates want him dead. A lot to handle for a slightly built man with a Talent Stone and a growing dependency on wine, but Aaron is up to the challenge.
Until his Stone is lost, his daughter is kidnapped, and the emperor reveals his plans.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brian Rathbone
• Release date: Mar 17, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476229102

Mark Eller

Mark Eller has been exiled to a dank basement cavern by his wife, Daneen, because that is the only way he can ignore the distractions of family and eight parrots enough to be able to write. While trapped within his cave, in addition to writing short stories and books, he has recorded and released two audio podcasts, God Wars, a dark fantasy trilogy found at The Hell Hole Tavern, and Mercy Bend, a compilation of twisted tales. Both podcasts can be found at i-tunes. God Wars was written and recorded with Mark's partner, Elizabeth Drapper.Mark has been published by a number of magazines, both on-line and in print, discovering along the way that in certain segments he has been classified as a horror writer, much to his surprise. He enjoys reading fantasy, science fiction, and mystery, but also has a strong preference for reading about archeology and history.

Book preview

Pawn

The Turner Chronicles

by Mark Eller

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and are a product of the author's imagination. Any similarity to persons living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Copyright © 2012 by Mark Eller

White Wolf Press, LLC

Rutherfordton, NC 28139

Smashwords Edition

Prologue

Make the straps tighter.

But the sores are worse, Mu Lei protested. You need time to heal.

Helmet Klein scowled, and Mu Lei knew why. A man of pride, he had learned to accept his worthless body years earlier but refused to look the fool. According to Helmet, arms and legs that flopped loose or fell free were signs begging for pity. A pitied emperor soon lost control of his empire.

Take care of your body, Samuel Aybarra reprimanded. It won't last forever.

It won't last a year, Klein snapped. Probably less than half that. I'm under a deadline, so tell me what you've got.

Not much, Aybarra admitted. He's disappeared.

Mu Lei rubbed Helmet's neck gently, knowing he appreciated the gesture, one sign of caring he could still feel. She was the only person allowed to sooth him. Such was her privilege as the emperor's only wife. True, her attachment to a cripple was onerous, but it was a chore she gladly accepted. Being the wife of Helmet Klein was more honor than she had expected in this life. She sometimes regretted the lack of children, but some honors were worth any price.

Your son has not answered your letters, she said. He never answers. Are you sure of his love?

Aaron knows if I want to see him, it's because I want to use him.

So he won't answer, and he won't come, Aybarra supplied. Makes me wonder why you're chasing him down.

Mu Lei smiled. This strange black man was a late addition from her husband's birth world but a welcome and loyal one. Several years earlier she had thought Helmet lost to them when he did not return from a journey to his home world. When all hope seemed lost, Samuel Aybarra walked into their camp with Helmet's body in his arms. Since that day, Aybarra had been Helmet's head of security and her friend.

Aaron Turner will come, Klein said. We just have to work it another way. The invitation has to come from somebody else, and it has to work on his conscience.

Mu Lei dug her fingers into his neck. She sometimes found it alarming how tight his muscles became. Klein groaned. She lessened the pressure but did not stop. As her husband and the savior of her people, she would not pity him. Even so, she prayed for the day when he could lay down his burdens and die. Soon after, she would join him. An eternity with Helmet in death would be sweeter than a day of life without him.

Your son will resent it, she said. He will fight you when he discovers what you have done.

Helmet grimaced. I don't care what he resents or how hard he fights. Once I get my hooks in the boy, he won't escape. I know him well enough for that. I know him well enough to twist him in any direction I desire.

So you don't want me to write him again? Aybarra asked.

No. I've another plan. It'll take time, but it'll draw him in. He'll answer if I threaten to throw half the world into war.

Not liking what she heard, Mu Lei shifted her fingers to his scalp. Aybarra's expression appeared wary as he fastened Klein's arms and legs to the throne.

Tighter, Klein ordered. Pull until the flesh bulges. I won't look the fool on my throne. Make me bleed if you have to.

Chapter One

Amanda Bivins was a dead woman.

Standing before Billowby's rust pitted gate, Aaron Turner's gaze followed the long line of ill-kept fence. At least three hundred and fifty feet, he figured, with an equal length behind him. In all, about seven hundred feet of fencing fronted a poorly maintained yard liberally speckled with towering oak and walnut trees. Here, near the gate, the grounds were better tended where smaller trees made an arching roof over the graveled path. Pieces of a building's roofline peeked through a few open spots in the leaves. From the distance between those open spaces, he knew the building was huge.

Perteet, Zisst rumbled from beside Aaron's right ear. It shifted a bit, rearranging its perch across his shoulders.

Looks a bit rundown, his cabdriver observed. With a bit of cleaning and a little paint you could have yourself the best looking fence in Galesward.

Yes, Aaron replied, turning to look at her. A matronly fortyish, she sat comfortably on her cab's high seat. They had spent the best part of two days together while she drove him from Londonary, the capital city of Jutland. During that time, Aaron had not bothered learning her name. Not learning names was a habit he had grown comfortable with during the last decade and more while living in N'Ark, Isabella's capital. Still, Isabella, with all its bustle, politics, and crime, was more than an ocean away so maybe he should change his habits. In this new land, he looked for a new life as the unassuming owner of a simple men's clothing store. Such a life would be a welcome change from being a rich industrialist possessing far too much power, both political and financial, for Isabella's comfort.

Aaron frowned and rubbed Zisst behind its ear. A quick flick of Zisst's tongue dampened his fingers.

Too much power indeed, Aaron thought as Zisst lay its head down. The parting of ways had been welcome on both sides. In fact, the only person vehemently opposed to his escape was Amanda Bivins, his personal lawyer, the soon to be dead woman.

Looking beyond the cabby, the other side of the street was populated by modest, well-maintained homes. A few houses down, an older woman planted flowers before a white picket fence. Farther along, four grinning people jogged.

Aaron looked back toward the manor. All he had wanted was a little obscurity. Not likely he could get that now, not while living in a massive mansion located smack dab in the center of Galesward. Never mind Galesward was only a small city. It was still a city.

A thump sounded beside him, followed by another, and then a third. The driver had thrown his luggage down from the cab. Three black bags, weighing more than fifty pounds each, had gotten him over an ocean, into Jutland, and now here. The rest of his belongings had been sent before him, supposedly delivered to a quaint little cottage he'd ordered Amanda to buy for him during her recent trip to Jutland. Something quaint, she promised, but not too quaint. Something in line with his intended stature as the successful owner of a small business. She had told him this while he was drunk, but not drunk enough to forget that after years of trying, she finally managed to get him into her bed.

More manipulation. Amanda had not been interested in sex or love. She had decided she was financially settled enough to have a child. The only father she would accept for said child was Aaron, because with two living sons he had a proven record.

Aaron frowned at the memory of his weakness. He had drunk a bit too much. Amanda struck. Aaron fell, and it would never happen again.

Mentally brushing the memory away, he took another look. The gate was still there, guarding the largest grounds in the city, holding what had to be the biggest house.

My money? the cabby said.

Huh. Aaron peered back at her.

You owe me. For the fare.

Oh yeah. Right. After fumbling in his pocket, Aaron tossed her a few coins. He didn't notice specifically what they were, but one flashed silver in the late afternoon sun. He figured it was enough. In a land where gold was plentiful, the more rare silver was king.

She grinned when the coins landed on the seat beside her. Thankee sir.

Welcome, Aaron replied as she released the cab's brake and encouraged her horses to move on. Sighing, he turned back to the gate and grabbed the bell pull. Hopefully, there had been a mistake. Hopefully, there was another sixteen Bakerfield somewhere in the city. Perhaps a Bakerfield Avenue instead of Bakerfield Street.

Hopefully. If not, Amanda Bivins would soon wish she really was dead. Grimacing, he pulled the bell and waited.

The woman who finally answered his call appeared to be an ill preserved ninety. Wearing an impeccable light blue uniform that would have appeared sharp on someone even ten years younger, her features were buried in carefully tended wrinkles surrounded by snow white hair. Small collections of dried pus gathered at the corners of her faded eyes.

Can I help you? she asked in a thin voice.

Yes, Aaron replied. I'm Mister Turner, the new owner. Let me in please.

She peered at him suspiciously. How do I know you are the Mister? You are too young to be the Mister.

Aaron grunted. He was close to thirty-eight, but he looked to be in his mid-twenties. One aspect of his Talent Stone--the rare amplifying device that enhanced a person's natural Talents--was its ability to slow the deteriorating effects of time. As best he figured, he was aging about one tenth as quickly as normal.

Sighing, he pulled out his wallet and passed it through the bars. She took it with a shaking hand, opened it, and shuffled through his papers. Her hands shook so badly the papers rattled. Despite her meticulous care, Aaron doubted she could read a word through her faded blue eyes.

Eventually, the old woman stuffed the papers back into his wallet and handed the crumpled mess back. Her fingers fumbled at the gate's latch for almost a full minute before it clicked. Aaron winced when rusty hinges squealed.

Welcome to Billowby Manor. I am Mistress Willow, your gatekeeper. Would you like me to show you to your new home or would you prefer I remain at my station?

Aaron spent a moment contemplating just how long it would take him to reach the house if he followed her. Remain here. I'll find my own way. However, if you get a free moment you could perhaps see to oiling the noisy hinges.

She seemed perplexed. The hinges are as smooth and quiet as ever. I haven't heard a rumble from them in years. The house is this way. She started down the only path leading from the gate.

Excuse me, Aaron called, wondering what part of 'he would find his own way' she had not understood.

She continued her slow hobble.

Excuse me!

Pausing, she turned to face him. Sir?

I have luggage on the walkway.

She nodded. I will attend to that. She started hobbling back towards the gate. Aaron's mind instantly filled with visions of the old woman suffering a stroke or a heart attack while struggling with his belongings. He waved for her to remain still while he brought his own luggage onto the property. Mistress Willow remained exactly where she had stopped, humming quietly. Zisst stirred and shoved its head into the arch of Aaron's neck, apparently upset by the jostling.

After dragging his bags through the gate, Aaron let them lie. Since the manor was set some small distance away, he wouldn't try to carry everything himself. Because the place was huge, and as he seemed to have an employee who did nothing except watch the gate, Aaron figured other servants must live on the premises. One of them could lug his gear.

We can go now?

Whatever the sir desires.

Mistress Willow turned back toward the house and shuffled off again. Fifteen feet later she reached a padded leather chair set beneath a shade tree. A permanently placed umbrella stood guard over it. I will let you go your own way. The house is right down this lane.

Aaron watched as she settled into the chair. If asked, he would have sworn her bones sighed relief.

An old man rounded the corner of the house as Aaron drew near. The fellow stepped lively while pushing a rotary mower before him. Upon seeing Aaron, he released the mower's handles and walked confidently forward. The powerful odor of sweat and freshly cut grass reached Aaron before the man did.

You would be Mister Turner?

I would be, yes.

Please step inside. I will prepare the staff. It won't take long. We've expected you for the last several days.

The foyer led into a great room which appeared unimpressive because of its rundown antiquity. From the cracked paintings on the walls to the worn carpets and the leaning furniture, the place stank of moldy age. Even the once white paint on the baseboards was yellowed and cracked.

As promised, the staff soon gathered. They appeared both young and sprightly--but only when compared to the ancient great room. The youngest had to be at least sixty-five. The oldest appeared to be over ninety. The gardener took charge of introductions.

First in line are your cooks, Miss Adams and Miss Bentley. The next four people are your maids. They are all Buntsons, married to myself this past year. Beyond them is Mister Hodkins, your butler, and Miss Lavine who handles the household accounts and does our outside purchasing, and Miss Cartridge, our major. She coordinates our duties and answers all correspondence that does not require the Mister's attention. She also arranges social invitations and plans parties to be held here at Billowby Manor. I am, of course, Mister Buntson, your gardener and maintenance man.

Disbelieving, Aaron looked the group over. Of them all, Mister Buntson and Miss Cartridge were the only two who owned any pretense of good health. The others appeared stiff and slow, in horrible shape. He found it amazing they all made it to the great room without someone dying.

A cottage, he reminded himself. A place where he could be alone. A place where he could live peacefully. He had wanted a little land, few neighbors, and a cottage.

Galesward was ruined for him. Because of this place, no one would believe he was just a small businessman. Treated with reverence and suspicion, he would always be three steps outside the fringes of the crowd. No matter how hard he tried, he would never fit in.

So--he would give Amanda a few months to find him someplace else. Meanwhile, he would relax and catch up on his reading. The world was big. It owned poor communications and plenty of places where people did not know the name of Aaron Turner. Amanda had screwed up, which didn't mean she wouldn't get it right the next time. Not after they had a little talk.

When Buntson cleared his throat, Aaron realized he had been staring at the group for some time. They expected something from him but damned if he knew what. It wasn't as if he was used to having servants. Other than hiring a cleaning lady every once in a while, Aaron mostly kept to himself.

Giving them his habitual half smile, Aaron gestured pointlessly with one hand. Very well. Is there anything I should know about the house? He gave the great room a slow look. Are any ceilings likely to cave in?

Miss Cartridge took a step forward. Sir, your rooms are in the west wing. We servants traditionally lived on the second floor, but we moved into the lower south wing a few years ago. One or two of us have difficulty traversing the stairs. Because of this, I am afraid the upper floor is not as pristine as it should be. Also, a visitor waits for you.

Aaron blinked. Already? I just arrived.

Miss Tremont has showed up at first light for the last several days. She refuses to leave until just before dark.

Aaron looked pointedly around. Where exactly is this persistent Miss Tremont?

She is in the lesser den. If you care to follow me?

No, Aaron did not care to follow, but he was too polite to say so. Instead, he wanted to go to his still unseen rooms so he could lie down and wallow in self pity. He had held hope for Galesward, but that was pretty much shot down. Just went to show life, or Amanda Bivins, had it in for him.

Reaching up, he pulled Zisst from around his neck and held it out. This is Zisst. Please put it in my rooms.

It? Miss Cartridge asked. Her lips thinned, and she took half a step back as her wrinkled hands folded tight against her belly. Then, with a shake of her head, she reached out to accept the animal.

Grinning at her reluctance, Aaron handed Zisst over. I've never been sure if Zisst is a he or a she, and apparently it isn't sure either because it seems to prefer being called an it.

I see, she said, eying Zisst doubtfully as it settled into her arms.

Aaron didn't blame her for her reluctance. The multi-colored animal was like nothing else Aaron had ever seen. When Zisst had been younger there had been no telling what the beast would look like from one day to the next. Even in its old age, his pet still changed its coloring and configuration at least once a month.

Aaron followed Miss Cartridge through the left hand door of the great room and down a short hallway to the second door on the right, where Miss Cartridge opened the door. The Mister, she announced.

Miss Tremont wasn't the supplicant Aaron expected not a young woman or even a middle-aged one. She was, in fact, a child of nine or ten who sat very primly on the visitor's chair, hands folded neatly in her lap, eyes closed. Her head tilted back and a small snore issued from her elfin mouth.

Miss Cartridge released a grunting laugh startling and waking the child. Jerking erect, Miss Tremont jumped hurriedly to her feet as her eyes found Aaron. Folded hands pulled apart to brush at her dress, smoothing down invisible folds and wrinkles. She bit the lower lip on a face which suddenly appeared serious and very frightened.

Aaron watched her nervous movements for a moment before walking around the large walnut desk dominating the room. He sat in the chair behind the desk, the only seat except for the one Miss Tremont had recently vacated. A pile of dusty correspondence papers sat at his right hand. Picking up a sheet, he crumbled it, took aim, and launched the paper at an empty wastebasket in the corner. The wadded paper sailed gently through the air, touched against the wall, and struck against the rim of the wastebasket. It hovered indecisively for a moment before falling to the floor.

He had missed.

Miss Tremont appeared confused. She smiled nervously. The tip of her tongue peeked forth to wet dry lips.

Aaron wadded up another sheet and tossed it. The second one struck the rim and bounced away. Shaking his head, he gave her his best puppy dog eyes.

Miss Tremont giggled.

Aaron frowned in mock sadness. I suppose you could do better?

She shook her head. Oh no, sir. I could never.

Prove it. Wadding up a third sheet, Aaron tossed it to her. Put one of those in the basket ten times. If you get all ten in before I do, I'll give you a full copper. Oh, Miss Cartridge--you may go.

Thank you, sir. She left, taking Zisst with her.

The girl might be unsure and nervous, but when it came to making money she wasn't slow. Without hesitation, she leaped to his desk. They both grabbed up several sheets, and a sudden flurry of flying paper followed. Aaron lost count of how many baskets she managed, but that didn't matter. After a couple minutes, he arbitrarily declared her the winner. It had become increasingly difficult to deliberately miss without her catching on.

Miss Tremont's face flushed with excitement when he handed her the coin. Aaron liked the new expression much better than the serious one she had worn before.

After helping her clean up their mess, he sat her back down and propped his feet up on the desk. Now then, I hear you've been waiting to see me.

Every day for the past week and more, she said. I was here almost every daylight hour except for going home to get lunch and make supper for me mum.

Aaron grimaced at her worried tone. The effects of his little game had been short lived. Whatever bothered the child must be important to her, which did not mean important to him. He gave her an encouraging nod and wished she were not there. The last thing he needed was to get involved when he planned on leaving as soon as Amanda found him someplace else.

You've something to say? Aaron hated the forced formality of his tone. The girl's lost waif eyes made him nervous.

Yes, sir. Her face grew even more serious, an unpleasant expression on a child so young, pulling a cord on Aaron's heart.

The girl bit her lip, and then spoke in a rush. Please don't fire me Mum. I know she was late for work Sunday before last, but she really didn't mean to be. It was just that my stomach hurt terribly bad the entire night before, and she had the most difficult time getting the doctor to come so he could make me stop hurting, and really, the other people probably covered for her so I doubt production was hurt at all.

Aaron slowly closed his eyes, counted to three, and opened them again. He didn't like the implications of this conversation. The clothing store he'd directed Amanda to purchase shouldn't have more than two or three employees, and they should not have production to worry about.

Why, he asked carefully,would I want to fire your mum? I've never fired anyone because they had sick kids. I'd never think of such a thing.

But Mister Grebfax says you'll fire everybody if they miss work or take short days. Mum always looks tired when she comes home, and she never gets enough sleep because it's way after dark, and there's still so much work to do at the house. She bumps into things and sometimes hurts herself. She told me the factory will kill her if this keeps on.

A cold feeling ran through Aaron. He sat quiet for several moments while her liquid eyes pierced him. Her tears welled up, started to spill, and he wished he were anywhere but there.

What factory? he finally asked.

Your factory. The one making the runabouts. She appeared confused, though not half as confused as Aaron felt.

The runabouts? he heard himself ask.

Amanda had promised him a gentleman's clothing store, for the God's sake, not a factory. Hopefully, this snit of a girl had the wrong person. Maybe the factory belonged to some other poor sap living in some other god-forsaken house.

Yes, sir, the young Miss Tremont said with a quaver. The runabouts. Mum said they started building them last month after the name on the sign was changed to Turner Fabrication. She says things were bad before, but now they're worse, and she doesn't know what she's going to do if she gets fired, because there aren't many jobs left where a person can make enough to feed themselves and a daughter, too.

Oh yes, Amanda Bivins would pay. She would pay big. Take a woman to bed one time--one time--and suddenly she thought she knew how to run a man's life even better than she had run it before. Anger boiled his blood. Amanda had her own affairs. She had damned well better pay attention to them and leave his life the hell alone.

Gods. It wasn't as if he had not told her exactly what he wanted. A quiet place in a nice quaint community where he could run a simple gentleman's clothing store. Was that too much to ask? Was it really?

Sir?

Aaron jolted back to find Miss Tremont looking at him with a worried expression. She twiddled her fingers, and her cheeks were damp, making Aaron curse his callousness. Now was not the time to wail about his troubles. After all, he was an adult and well suited to dealing with these matters. Miss Tremont was a young girl who worried about her mother, her home, and herself. She needed reassuring while he needed to find out what the hell was going on.

Could you do me a favor? Please don't mention this conversation to your mother. I want to see the factory without anyone knowing you spoke to me. Is that okay? Could you do that?

Yes, sir, she said, but her voice was unsure.

Aaron smiled encouragement. Thank you. I promise things will get better for your mother. If she loses this job, I'll see she gets another, and it won't be one where she worries about getting fired because her child is sick.

Rising from his chair, Aaron went over to her. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he looked straight into her eyes in an attempt to be reassuring and believable. All I ask in return is that you don't let anyone know you came to see me. Not yet.

Large eyes, set in a face finally starting to relax, studied him. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.

Oh, and Miss Tremont.

Sir?

What's your first name?

Julia, she answered. You can call me Julia.

* * * *

The wing his servants assigned him was considerably different from the rest of the house. For one thing, it was newer. The east wing consisted of a master bedroom, two smaller bedrooms, a den, a library, and a large sitting room. The walls were freshly painted in colors he liked. The pictures were copies of Bouveit, Hallen, and McNivit, artists he had shown a preference for in the past. The carpets were new, as was the furniture, and praise the Lady and Her Lord, the chairs had actual usable cushions on them. Aaron's skinny butt demanded a certain amount of cushioning when he sat.

The library, he found, was well stocked. The older books had obviously been there for some time, but the newer ones included his favorite authors along with several writers he had never encountered before. Opening one of those unknowns, he read a long passage, finding the author was both succinct and knowledgeable. The woman spiced her writings with humorous observation on ancient cultures, a subject Aaron was interested in.

Disgusted, Aaron slapped the book shut and threw it across the room. Any lingering doubts he held were gone. Everything could have been a horrible mistake. Wires could have been crossed. Messages could have been scrambled. Amanda could have claimed unknowing innocence--but no. He had been played. Everything in his rooms had been chosen with him in mind.

Damn her! The woman thought she could continue running his life.

Fuming, he checked the drawers and closets to find the clothes he had shipped overseas were not there. Instead, they had been replaced with clothes better cut and of a much higher quality. Aaron counted three racks of ties. He had not worn a tie more than half a dozen times in his life.

A piece of paper was pinned to the front tie. Folding it open, Aaron saw that it diagramed the steps needed to properly tie a knot.

He growled Amanda's name.

So! She manipulated! He had half a mind to tell her off. By using his Talent for transferring, he could be back in N'Ark in a moment. Hell, he could be in her bedroom.

But that might lead to her interfering again. Aaron did not need Amanda Bivins or her hirelings to do for him. He could go back to N'Ark, grab some money, and search out his own place. Galesward and this manor and the unknown factory would be history by tomorrow evening. Hell, they could be history before then.

Aaron slammed the closet door shut. Frowning, he glared at drapes in a style and pattern he liked.

He was out of here. He would take off and leave this mess for Amanda to handle. She deserved the headache.

Large liquid eyes stared at him. Please don't fire me Mum.

Shut up, Aaron muttered to the memory.

They spoke Jut in Scotsdale. He could go there. True, their accent was atrocious, barely understandable, but he would catch on in time. Scotsdale was an interesting place. They raised lots of sheep. In fact, it was the sheep raising capital of the world.

He hated sheep.

Mum always looks so tired.

Damn you, girl. Shut up!

A bell near his suite entrance rang. He went to the door, swung it open, and found Mister Hodkins stooped before him. Several moments passed before the man caught enough breath to speak.

Sir, there is some small argument among the staff. Your input would resolve matters.

And the problem is?

The matter has to do with your luggage. Several of the servants are in disagreement as to whose duty it is to bring it into the manor.

Right. Of course they argued. With the exception of the gardener, it was likely none of his staff could lug in a single piece, let alone all of it.

I'll see to the matter myself.

Very good sir. And does the sir wish to dine?

When will it be ready?

It would be ready now, Hodkins said. Previously, the House always dined at six o'clock sharp. We have kept your meal warm for the past half hour.

Aaron blushed and had no idea why. It wasn't as if they had told him the food was ready. Besides, the last he noticed, these people worked for him, not the other way around.

I'll be down in a bit.

Hodkins did not move. Perhaps I should provide escort since you have not yet been to the main dining room?

Of course. Why don't you lead the way?

And the animal?

Right, Aaron supposed Zisst wouldn't be terribly welcome at the main table. Besides, it was getting on in years. Of late, his pet enjoyed a good nap more than a new exploration.

Zisst will remain here. Bring up a small amount of meat and some vegetables. Now, how about that leading the way thing?

Hodkins nodded. Please follow me.

From the pace Hodkins set, he wasn't in a hurry. After five or six eternities, they made it to the dining room.

Upon entering, Aaron saw a room which was both long and garish. Stopping, he took a good long look at the narrow table filling most of the space. Built of solid maple, the thing could seat at least thirty people. Aaron took a count of himself, reached the number one, and welcomed himself to his discomfort zone.

Surprisingly, the meal proved to be quite good. The beef had been well grained, and the vegetables were entirely fresh. However, Aaron would have found the meal more enjoyable if Hodkins and Cartridge had not hovered over his right and left shoulders the entire time.

He lost his patience after Hodkins spent two minutes arranging six green beans on his plate.

I can serve myself. The glare he gave Hodkins should have withered the man's few remaining hairs. Unfortunately, Hodkins didn't notice.

No, sir, you cannot serve yourself, Miss Cartridge replied. We have strict instructions that you are to be trained for polite society. Miss Bivins was very firm on the matter when she visited several months ago.

Damn Amanda and damn her again. He wouldn't be trapped here by the woman's manipulation. He would leave. He would leave and find a place where he could remake Aaron Turner…right after he got a good night's sleep.

She says the factory will kill her.

Aaron shook his head, trying to rid himself of Julia Tremont's voice

We will starve if Mum gets fired.

The amount of food on the table would feed six people. Most of it would go to waste.

Maybe he could take a look at that factory. What difference would one morning make? After all, he had given Miss Tremont his promise, and promises were important to the young. If there was a problem, he could spend a week or two taking care of it. He had a good deal of money, and money had a habit of smoothing away most difficulties.

He lifted his fluted wineglass, took a sip of the amber liquid, and smiled. Say what you will, Jutland's wine was far better than what he had been drinking. This stuff even put his favorite Runeburg White to shame. He began to take another sip, changed his mind, and turned the sip into a gulp.

This vintage really was good.

Maybe he would stay for a few days after all. One or two. A week at the most.

Thank you, Sir.

It wouldn't hurt to take a short look at things. What harm was there in that? At the least, he would discover if he really did own a factory.

Chapter Two

The freshly painted sign along the top edge of the building read TURNER FABRICATION.

Okay, Aaron thought, so there was a more than even chance Julia Tremont had been correct. Maybe this place did belong to him. Running fingers through his uncombed hair, Aaron squared his shoulders. Part of him wanted to turn and walk away because he knew this place would be trouble. He was tired of trouble.

Sir?

Aaron pulled his gaze from the sign to a harried man who eyed him warily.

Yes?

Would you be Mister Turner?

Aaron exhaled. Unfortunately.

Does that mean you are the Mister?

Aaron nodded. I suppose it does, but I have to be honest with you. I knew nothing about this place until yesterday. I'm told you people might need my help, but I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do.

Grebfax.

What?

My name is Grebfax, sir. I guess I'm in charge. At least I was in charge of the old business. As Miss Bivins didn't make any personnel changes when she bought the building, I think I'm still in charge.

Miss Bivins? There went his last faint hope this mess was some sort of colossal mistake made by one of her hirelings. Mister Grebfax, what are we looking at?

We've been handed a real mess. The old equipment went out the door a few weeks ago. We got this new stuff in a day later. That was the last time anything happened according to schedule because nobody knows how to use any of the new equipment.

Grebfax gestured toward a pile of twisted metal outside the building. If the bends aren't wrong, then the brazing is weak. If it isn't the brazing, then the plates are drilled off center. I got thirty-six people who make damn good buggy wheels and whip sockets. They know nothing about constructing runabouts. It took us an entire week to make six complete units, but none are in sellable condition, and we don't know what we're supposed to do with them anyway. Pausing, he drew in a deep breath. Why don't you come in and see what we have going on? You can meet some of your people.

Lead on, Aaron followed Grebfax up the drive and through the open factory doors. Once inside, he frowned. Where the exterior appeared to be clean and mostly organized, the interior looked like chaos incarnate. Not a single person seemed to be operating on the proper amount of sleep. Most of their faces were haggard and dark, and if there was a smile among them, it was hidden. Every expression appeared depressed.

Thank you, Amanda.

I'm in the dark, he admitted. What exactly is a runabout?

Grebfax raised his hands. Nobody knows. We have the plans for building them. We built a few, but we've no idea how to use one. From the name, I assume their function is to get a person from one place to another, but it seems impossible to sit on one without falling over.

Aaron suddenly had a light bulb moment. Could I see one?

You own the factory.

I'm starting to believe I do.

Grebfax led Aaron through several isles cluttered with broken and twisted parts until they reached the back wall where the finished runabouts leaned.

Thank the Gods, Aaron whispered.

Bright and shiny and red, the bicycles were one of the best sights he had ever seen. Transportation not dependent on horses or mules or oxen? What a concept! The thought of traveling on something that did not want to bite a chunk out of his shoulder was stunning.

Damn and damn again. He owned a bicycle factory.