The De Lally Caravan

Emil is going to kill Leon. He isn’t sure when, where, or how he will do it, but he is certain he will do it eventually. This is the fourth time he has been forced to go inside a bar by himself. He is underage, naïve, and not the least bit threatening in anyone’s eyes—unless of course, someone in this room happens to be afraid of meek, large-eyed boys with the skin and hair of a lab rat. Without Leon, Emil feels small, exposed, and weak. He hates this part of Knale, and he wants nothing more than to retreat into the comforts of his flat and sleep his worries away. Of course, that isn’t going to happen today. Today, the De Lally Caravan summoned him, and when the De Lally Caravan summons, he must answer.

He looks back to how it all began, an innocent boy nearing adulthood at a blooming seventeen hoping to find work and fulfilled aspirations in the form of a Knale resident. Knale is the largest and most advanced city in the entire world, housing some of the best professors, engineers, innovators, tycoons, and open dreams.
Emil remembers the feeling he had when setting foot in the city for the first time when he got off that train: utter, speechless wonder.

Towers of buildings, cranes, cables, train rails, airships, and roads line the city skies to their grounds. It is a vast network of transportation and communication, pedestrians and automobiles, the rich and the poor, the big dreamers and the crushed. In the city of Knale, their airship designs are the fastest and efficient. Their train and railing connections and stops are spot-on perfect. No train is ever late. Automobiles run on their own lanes without needed to worry about the rest of the world as they motor on from one point to another. Cables, skylines, and carts carry tourists and the wealthy through the skies in comfortable luxury, and next to them, cargo containers run in and out through factories and ports to be shipped and sold to neighboring cities and countries. Everything is neatly compacted into place, and it is all beautiful.

When first setting his luggage down beside him, Emil thought the city was where his dreams would come true. He dreamt of finding work in a humble place, perhaps through a bookstore, as he was fond of those. Whatever place he would find would not be perfect, but it would not be worse than his rickety bedroom back home.

He once dreamt that he would find everything here: satisfaction, adventure, fulfillment, romance, and a life to call his own. But something happened, and it all came crashing down on the fifth day of sleeping in the alleys after he had failed to find an affordable room and a decent job. He needed the money, and he saw a small sheet of paper floating by that posted for “Odd Jobs.” The interviews were conducting that afternoon, and with nothing else better to do, Emil thought it was worth a shot and went to the address listed on the advertisement. The worst that could happen was if they said, “No.”

---

Cécile Bonnefoy was perhaps the singularly most terrifying woman Emil had ever laid his innocently pale lavender eyes upon. She appeared to be barely into her twenties, not quite thirties, with the wits and vision of a prominent businessman, seen easily by the manner in which she spoke and of how she sat. Her crossed legs said something about her tight-knit personality that warned intruders not to go knocking too close, and her elegant sense of fashion told those who laid their eyes upon her that she knew what fashion was and how to flaunt with without needing to. No matter how many times one would go against her, it was as if by all odds, she knew that she was ultimately the better one and the victor.

Not once did she smile. Her touchy pink lips were twisted in an insufferably neutral line that one could have easily measured as level with the earth. Her tortoise shell frames accented her stunning blue eyes that sparkled in the cone light each time she made an adjustment, and with each time she adjusted, he could not help but feel that he had come to do something wrong and silently apologized like a tripping record.

Emil had done nothing wrong to make her upset—yet.

“Can you cook?”

“No.”

“Clean?”

“Inadequately.”

“Dial?”

“No.”

“Run errands?”

“I-I’m new to Knale…”

His last answer hit more nerves than one. He thought of his decisions and perhaps how irrationally abrupt they were. He should have written a better letter to his family back home and dropped a bigger hint. Another side of him believed he should have stored more money. Even the cheapest motels could gobble up a tenth of his savings, and by Day 5, he will have been penniless and out on the streets before he could so much as count the days of his visit. None of the flats were vacant, and with his baggage being more on the heavy side, it was all he could do to keep his suitcase close to him as he slept on the streets and hope for the best.

It was then, in that instantaneous moment that he realized he missed being home. He missed his brother and his family and friends. He even missed his rickety bedroom that was no bigger than a broom closet, which shook every time the trains passed by—and that was every half an hour, clockwork.

Cécile removed her glasses and began to chew on the ends. Without the enlarged lenses rimming her eyes, she looked younger—by seven years, give or take—and less intelligible. She made a gnawing, nerve-wracking sound as she chewed, whether to annoy Emil or to make him uneasy was not in his place to say, but she was doing one heck-a-roni of a job doing both.

It might have been that Cécile knew. She knew of his character, that innocent young mind looking to make something of himself in the big city and hope he could aspire to be someone—just…someone. Her eyes appeared to know. They taunted him with an unrelenting stare that made Emil nervously fidget in his seat and cause his eyes to sting. He would have looked away or blinked, but he though it rude to not put up a fight. In the end, however, and as she might have expected, he lost.

“Give us a moment,” she suddenly said and placed her glasses back over her eyes. The tall oriental man with the neatly combed bangs turned around and focused his attention on her where a small discussion took place right in front of their “guest.” Emil was then left in silence, wondering what on earth he had gotten himself into.

“He’s just a boy!” Cécile hissed in more than a quiet outburst than an actual whisper. “He doesn’t have anything we can use him for, and I made it clear when I sent out the application that I didn’t want anyone that we couldn’t put to use!”

“Everyone has their uses, and I find him to be quite charming,” the oriental man said.

Cécile furiously shook her head. “Charming and humble are two different things! He is not charming, he’s naïve!”

“Naïve people can also be honest, and the right kind of honest can be charming. Just look at him.”

They both interrupted their conversation to look back at Emil who was all a bundle of nerves, sweaty palms, kicking shoes, and all.

“Alright, say he’s charming. Then what?”

“We need people who can keep secrets and look the part. He fits both.”

“Does he, now?”

The oriental man adjusted his glasses. Emil thought he looked rather intelligent when he made that gesture, and he looked intelligent already. “He isn’t desperate. Desperate people dig; they search for answers that should not be lying around in the first place. If we play the right pieces, he will be a very valuable asset to us.”

It had just dawned on Emil that the entire time he had laid his eyes on the oriental man, not once had he seen that smile leave his face in contrast to the ever-neutral Cécile.

It was her turn to speak now.

“Very well. Let’s make a wager to that: a charming young man or a swindling little liar that will make this whole joyride go up into flames.”

“Name your price.”

“Three hundred grand sounds like a nice number.”

“Three hundred grand it is, then.”

And then they shook hands and told Emil the most gratifying and yet binding words he had heard since setting foot in this dreadful city: “Mister Emil Steilsson, you are hired.”

The next events came as what he could only describe as a hurricane, a hurricane with documents, contracts, introductions, paychecks, rooms, and a curious mentor bestowed to his care.

In less than a day, Emil had found himself with a solid paycheck of a hundred heta*, an apartment that was provided for, and someone to personally teach him the ropes of his job. He had to be honest: he had no idea what sort of job he had been hired for due to the frustratingly vague contract. It was like a mechanical, twisted dream, and he was living it largely and with much confusion.

Firstly, his mentor introduced himself as Leon Wang, a bright-eyed young man who couldn’t have been any older than Emil, himself, and perhaps the only reason he was bright-eyed was because his irises bore a similar golden sparkle much like that oriental man (he later found out his name was Cheng) who had been co-hosting the interview. He would have to thank that oriental man sometime in the future; because of him, he didn’t have to stay in the streets any longer.

“Cheng was right about you: you’re humble and modest, but so was Cécile—being humble doesn’t make your charming. Making you so is my job.”

Emil’s head was still caught in the hurricane. He had no idea if what he was experiencing was true or not. Just a few days ago, he had hopped aboard the first airship to Knale with a brief farewell and dropped himself off at the industrial tycoon of a city’s doorstep. From there, it was venue after venue, and all had passed him by and swept him under their rugs like he was the leftover remains of something unwanted and discarded.

He had heard stories about this where young, ambitious minds would go into the city hoping to make something big of themselves, but the truth hit hard. It hit them at such a length that the hungry were ravaging for a success story. They would work night and day, drenched to the bone in sweat until something happened, a miracle, no doubt, and like that the city would turn them into heroes, story protagonists, and film stars galore. If not that, their stories were romantic, where they found not money and power, but the richness of love and beauty in such a mechanized dumping heap of metal, steam, and smog. Knale had a way of doing that to people—so they said in songs and the press. And it was Knale that Emil was drawn to, hoping he would be able to get his behind kicked around enough to where he could feel that hungry urge to succeed, too. If not here, he would never feel it back home, and to this city he went.

And now, after everything and approximately five days of meandering about, he was told he was wanted because he was not desperate—that he was humble and with the right turn of the hat and a pleasant smile, he could be charming. What a world.

“So you’re new to Knale,” Leon said as he leafed through Emil’s many books and outfits. His expression was, for the most part, unreadable, save for the snide air he carried about—or perhaps it was his sharp cologne.

“I am,” Emil confirmed.

His mentor clicked his tongue as he threw select trousers and shirts to the floor. Others he kept on the mattress.

“You know, if it wasn’t for my cousin, you’d still be down with the rest of those grade-A smudges.” While sorting, he softly added to the side, “This one’s going to the poorhouse.”

Emil caught that little bit and began collecting the clothes on the floor, the ones designated for the “poorhouse.”

“Are you crazy?” he snapped. “You can’t just throw stuff away without my permission!”

He nearly exploded when his supposed mentor gave his nose a little flick and went right back to sorting his wardrobe.

The nerve and sass of him!

“And before you snap, the first lesson I’m going to give you is to hold your temper. Got that? Hold your temper.”

“Hold my temper…!” he echoed, appalled. You’re about to give my clothes to people I don’t know, and I’m supposed to hold my temper?”

Leon continued without batting an eyelash. “The second lesson I’m going to give you is that you don’t always get a reason for everything. Sure, there are reasons, and everyone’s got their own set of them, but that doesn’t mean they’re willing to disclose. You’ll soon find that most reasons aren’t even worth giving a smudge’s spit about, so just accept and roll with it. It helps you stay up to par with lesson number one.” He turned around and beckoned to Emil with his hand like a father to his son. “Come you, I know you’re a smart boy. (You’d better be, anyway.) What’s rule number one?”

His tongue tied and his brain in shambles, Emil could do nothing but hopelessly say, “Hold my temper.”

“Good. You are smart after all. I really hope Cheng wins the bet. I get thirty percent of it, and if you’re really good, I might throw in a little five percent for you.”

Five percent didn’t sound like a lot at all, but when he was talking three hundred thousand heta, that was a hefty fifteen thousand heta, more than Emil had never seen or handled in his life—that was, if Leon was addressing the three hundred grand and not his thirty percent cut.

“Um, hey…Leon?”

“That’s me. (Whoops. That goes in the poor pile.)”

“What exactly is it that I’m supposed to, well, do?”

“Act charming and play your part.”

“Sure, but what part is that?”

“Serve the inner club once we know you can keep secrets.” Leon stopped all of a sudden and froze in place. He was like one of those mechanized toys that stopped to calculate a function before carrying it out. “Actually, I think that, like, you’re already serving the inner club in a way. Cheng contacted me, and only ‘in’ people know about me. This is something like your unofficial invitation. Say hello to me.”

Emil couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not. However, he knew enough to say this young man was arrogant. He decided to play along and say “Hello.”

“Wow, you’re awful,” was what Leon replied with. So much for “Lovely day we’re having.”

“Back home, when we say ‘Hello,’ we mean it,” Emil growled through his teeth.

“And you’re unpleasant. Tell me something, Emil, do I look like a particularly pleasant person to you?”

Emil wanted to say “No” with all his heart and willing. Leon was quite the character, quick to respond and with a sharp barb that poked and prodded just enough that you would want to take care of, but not enough that it was a genuine problem. As for looking the part—the key word being “look”—Leon was a well-dressed individual. Emil wasn’t too familiar with the styles here, but the moment his mentor had tapped on his door and let himself inside, he knew he was the ambitious and made sort.

Leon could be considered a fast-forward man. His taste in attire fitted the atmosphere of the industrial complex of the city in that his rustic choice of attire complimented the bronze and iron backgrounds. On his head, he sported a top hat affixed with various types of goggles, and gears that turned contraptions on his hands and cuffs in and out to sort the many timers and meters he wore. Emil couldn’t even tell which ones were clocks and which ones were thermometers. As for the rest of his clothes, everything appeared to be tailored specifically to Leon’s choice of character: snide yet bold with a little taste of something unique, not quite avant-garde obnoxious and arrogant, and yet not so much traditional and safe. The complete picture was one of true mastery in the art of presenting himself. So, yes, Leon looked like a pleasant person, and Emil begrudgingly said so.

“Thank you,” Leon smiled. It was a shallow and conceited smile. “Now you see why I’m throwing out specific clothes?”

“That I don’t.”

“Look.” Leon held up a sweater, one of Emil’s favorites. Though it wasn’t winter quite yet, there was a special significance to that one: Emil’s mother had it made for him during the holidays two years ago. He had not since grown, so he was still able to wear it. He didn’t understand why that one needed to go. Leon was more than happy to explain.

“You see these cuffs?” He held out the special cuffs that were sewn onto the ends of the sleeves that Emil thought made him rather classy.

“Yes?”

“If you wear something like this, you can get them caught into the gears around here when pulling levers. If the threads are strong, you can get your entire arm caught up in the gears, and that is not good for business, let me tell you.

“And this one right here, this coat. The tailcoat is too long. While boarding the rails here, you can snag these little beauties on the doors or the railing and grind to your death. Before you get any graphic images, the lawsuits don’t write themselves, but not everyone has the time or the care to both with that sort of thing. The dead don’t sue, after all, and most of these ‘accidents’ usually result in death or permanent injuries. So you see? Who said fashion couldn’t save your life?”

Emil was bitter, but more understanding as to why Leon was doing this. At the very least, it sounded as though his clothes would be going towards a better cause for himself and for others: he would not get decapitated or dismembered, and the less-privileged would have something to wear for the winter. Everyone wins.

With his wardrobe eventually sorted out, Leon told him to put on his best clothes from his remaining pile and collect the rest to personally give to the donations department. Emil selected his striped vest with a dark blue coat. He thought he looked rather presentable, but Leon claimed he would look more mature with a hat.

“The trouble with you is that you have a boyish look,” he mumbled. “How old are you? Uh, twenty? Nineteen maybe?”

“I’m seventeen,” Emil flatly answered.

This made Leon eyes brighten. “Huh. Old as me.”

“What a surprise,” he sarcastically remarked. From the looks of it, he would have thought he was around twenty-two. The only thing that would have made it worse was if Leon was younger than him.

“And when’s your birthday?”

“Seventeenth of June.”

“Ha!” It was the first time Emil heard his mentor laugh. He appeared his biological age when doing so. “I’m younger than you by two weeks! Emil, my friend, you need to pick up the pace!”

His eyes narrowing, Emil inquired, “Since when was I your friend?”

“Since getting put with you promised a payment of ninety thousand heta,” came the answer, an honest one, but not a pleasant one.

“Fair enough,” he sighed and collected his clothes and was on his way. They had a busy day ahead of him, and he would be glad to get his chores done as soon as possible.

---

“You’re very charming, Mr. Steilsson, did you know that?”

Emil smiles a shallow, yet deceiving smile. Leon taught him how to be bold yet subtle, refined yet sociable, acclaimed yet modest. He takes in the public’s words and tells it what it wants to hear. Through and through, he says the right things, and the effort he invests is surprisingly light on his part. Emil is an honest man, and with genuinely honest intentions, there is little need for him to twist the truth. People bend at his will and pour their hearts out to him like the bile and vomit they produce when drinking too heavily. In extreme cases, Emil is always prepared with a thick handkerchief for a polite gesture, and shortly after, a sweeper chugs along and automatically disposes of any waste into its mechanized mouth.

“As many times as I have heard it, I still have trouble believing it,” he says to the women with a naturally modest tone. The women fan their fans and chortle with laughter. Here in the pub, the air reeks of alcohol, loose tongues and money. The maturity and raw primitiveness of their behavior make his palms wet with apprehension. Fortunately, Leon taught him how to be stoic in the best of times. The best method of conduct is to not pay attention to them at all. Let a filter run through and pick up key words: chips, key, door, and bet.

Emil has heard of them all. “Chips” refers to poker specifically, and while there are different types of poker in the city, the De Lally Caravan plays Dead Draw, the most unfair and hardest of them all. Add in the fact that the probability of winning poker against the hosts of the De Lally Caravan are unbeatable, and you have yourself a death sentence on your wallet.

“Key” refers to the password which changes with every game. Those who do not know the next round are not permitted inside. Access denied. If you do not know the key, it is only through word of mouth, and those mouths are very difficult to get undone. That, in part, is Emil’s job. He personally has his ways of gaining access into the De Lally Caravan, but Leon prefers he learns through experience. As someone who has the scoop on the inside of the club, he needs to prove himself. He has barely been in Knale for two months, and he is already climbing the ladders. There is no need to start falling off now.

“Door” can only be one thing: the actual entrance into the De Lally Caravan. The De Lally Caravan is not stationary. It moves around the city wherever it likes, and hides within the comfortable confinement of rooftops of the elite and privileged. Sometimes, it swings by the residences of politicians or the mayor, himself, where they discuss nothing but dogs, new automobiles, and a fanciful trip around the world. And then, like a floating circus that comes and goes on a loose schedule, it floats away to another place like a shadow erratically jumping on the walls of a dance club.

The De Lally Caravan can do this because it is an airship. Who pilots the ship, no one knows. Who decides the next destination is also a mystery. All one needs to know is that when it makes itself seen, one can tell. The drab ordinary appearance of its hull exposes questions and curiosity to the keen observer: how does an airship that looks so plain have an audience with the prince of a far off city in the desert? Where are all of these fabulous women and tycoons pouring from, and how did they find this place? Emil knows, and this little piece of information gives him some pride. Though he is still humble in nature, the little knowledge of personally being affiliated with the hosts acts as a strong support. He is unstoppable.

Lastly, there is “bet.” It should actually be considered “the bet,” as there are many light and trivial bets that take place all over the pub and on the streets. “The bet,” however, is different. “The bet” is what the De Lally Caravan lives for; it is a never-ending game among the most powerful, handing itself off from person to person to see who can hold it without getting burned. One potato, two potato, hot potato, cold. That “potato,” as it turns out, is the city of Knale itself. The bet revolves around responsibility. With the city to call your own, you can do whatever you so well please, no strings attached. The public be damned**, as one might say.

Surprisingly, Emil learned not too long ago that while the bet circulates through the hands of the players who attended the mysterious caravan, not once has the hosts let the bet fall into their grasp. It is not clear to him if this is because of apathy or caution, but one thing is certain to him: Leon wants to win the bet.

Compared to the bet Cécile and Cheng have going on, winning the hand of the city is no easy feat. Emil is still reluctant about this entire goose chase. He wishes he were home. He does not want the city. Ever since setting foot inside, he learned the world is a terrible place. The poor huddle in shelters, and the rich and wealthy drain all the money away. It is sickening. He calls himself charming until he believes it, and the others do the same, laughing and drinking their problems away like the money they burn. No one here is charming at all. What Emil fears the most is if he loses his charm once he accepts this belief. He will no longer be the aspiring dream he once was; he will be bitter and cynical beyond saving. He needs to stay optimistic and ambitious.

“Goddammit, Leon,” he curses. But it’s hard to be optimistic and ambitious when the one person who claims he is his friend in this lonesome, large city is not even here. “I am going to kill you.”

“Kill who?”

Startled, he whips around and sees Leon and his bright, golden eyes that long for the great and the powerful. Sometimes Emil finds himself wondering if his so-called friend is only so ambitious because he constantly sees through golden lenses.

“You. Are. Late!” he angrily whispers to his mentor and taps his pocket watch with a barbing finger.

“Sorry, good friend, I had to run some errands at the far end of town. Something to do with the bankers in the west side getting in on the key. For a little fee and information, I managed to pick up the whereabouts of the bet.”

Three words ring loud and true on Emil’s ears: “key” and “the bet.” He displays some interest until the woman call back to him and fawn over his soft white hair and exotic lavender eyes.

“Darling Emil, where ever did you get such gorgeous hair?” one croons. “I’d love to have hair as white as the snow. At least that way, no one would ever be able to tell when I was starting to gray.”

The others laugh, and Emil and Leon smile shallow smiles.

“His eyes are lovely, too,” another adds. “Look at how they compliment my ring.”

“Your husband’s ring or your lovers?” More laughing. Emil wants to grimace, but his mentor is watching over him. This is a test.

“I have my mother’s eyes and hair—both look far more beautiful on her than they do me,” he humbly tells them. “But I think both would look equally as lovely on you, ladies.”

He wants nothing more than to roll his eyes when the ladies “Ooo.” Leon gives a small nod and takes over from here. Emil wonders if he has passed when his young mentor orders a round of strong drinks too strong for even Emil’s little nose. Status is status, and he drinks. His head and stomach do not cope well with the alcohol, and soon, his face flushes pink and his vision blurs.

Emil later finds himself sitting idly among some of the slower women who have either passed out or grew too drunk to stand. His head swims with colors while Leon chats with the other patrons with a quick tongue and a tip of his goggle hat. He is like oil. His mannerisms are fluid and slick, slippery and yet so full of rot and maliciousness. Emil cannot grasp such a character. He wonders where Leon got his twisted ambition from at such a young age. He acts like he has been hardened into the De Lally Caravan all his life. Perhaps it is because this is true. He will have to ask him one day when his mind is clear, and the bet is won. Only then does he suspect his “friend” will play the telling game with him.

The night disappears and Emil’s test with it. He passes, and Leon offers to take him out to the club atop his flat to eat. Emil eagerly declines and wants only to get some rest.

“Ah, Emil, my friend, we have a special destination tomorrow,” Leon grins like a cat sporting a mistrusting top hat.

“Where, might I ask?” he tiredly inquires.

“To the door. You have a key, I presume?”

“At the ready,” he sighs. He obtained it from a woman he had charmed and kissed on her hand. He remembers the tastes of spicy perfume and powder. “Spotted” was the key of the evening. He remembers Cheng mentioning something about large cats in their previous encounter and uses that as leverage in case he forgets.

“Well, then, I’ll see you in the evening?” Leon smiles.

“Indeed.”

“And you haven’t forgotten about the bet, have you?”

“Which one?” he exhaustedly asks. His mind is preoccupied with how he will wash off the smells of smoke and alcohol.

“Ours.”

Emil blinks, confused for a moment. “Ours?” he repeats with furrowed eyebrows. “As in the one your cousin and Cécile played, or the big one?”

“Neither. We’ve got one going on, too.”

Now Emil is really going to kill Leon. He is on the brink of going insane. He doesn’t know who’s telling the truth anymore. Most of all, he clearly doesn’t remember any bet he made with Leon. Certainly not that pompous oaf of a player. Emil prides himself in the fact that he will not let his mentor bed him against his will.

“It’s the one where we we’re going to see if we can become real friends by the time we seize the city.”

That’s it. Of all the things to say, that is the most absurd thing he can come up with. Him friends with Leon! As if the title of being the snake’s friend isn’t bad enough!

“Did all that alcohol go to your head, Leon?” he cracks a laugh. This is all too much for him. He doesn’t remember ever agreeing to a bet like that. He isn’t even sure why Leon proposed such a bet if he knows he will lose something like that. “Leon, you’re crazy to think I’d ever become friends with you.”

“You never know,” his mentor shrugs. “Why build a ladder if you don’t planning on climbing it?***”

“I don’t know…! Sometimes rich people like to build fancy things they never use!”

“Temper, my friend.”

“To heck-a-roni with your temper! As soon as I win Cécile and Cheng their bet and I get my five percent cut, I’m cutting all ties with you!”

Leon grimaces. “You’re terrible.”

“I can say the same about you, leading me around the city, trying to listen in on people I don’t give a smudge about, and having to follow everything by your schedule! I wanted to be free, Leon! That’s why I came to Knale!”

It is the first time Emil recalls ever seeing a flash of anger on his mentor’s golden eyes. The phase passes quickly, but Leon’s tone remains dark and malicious.

“No one is ever free in this city, Emil,” he speaks softly. “Even when you didn’t have debts to pay or bosses to listen to, Knale had you in its jaws from the beginning, from the moment you purchased whatever ticket it was that got you here and brought you to its stations. It stole your dreams, and now you’re stuck chasing after them like a tethered dog hoping it will get its bone if only it claws hard enough.” He moves close to Emil who is frozen with shock at the sudden change in his mentor’s voice. “Well, guess what, my friend? You will never attain it. That is why we found you so valuable: because you were still clawing.” He smiles a mocking smile. “And you’re a rare breed, cute and boyish. We have always welcomed your kind.”

Emil does not know what to say to what. A part of him is angry that Leon and his cahoots with Cheng and Cécile trapped him under their claws, and another part of him is both irritated and flustered that Leon called him cute.

Finally, after much assessing and contributions on his part, Emil does the first thing Leon told him to do: hold his temper.

“You aren’t going to make many real friends this way, Leon,” he huffs and storms in the other direction.”

“Don’t forget about the door, my friend,” he hears Leon remind him.

As a curt gesture, Emil throws his thumb to the ground in a crude gesture and marches onward.

-----

“Spotted.”

The key, the door, and the chips beyond.

Emil was nervous out of his wits the first time he stepped inside the De Lally Caravan. Before coming to Knale, he had never been on an airship. The floors were unstable, and foreign sounds whizzed past his eardrums from the currents, the horns, and the foolish birds. All had set him on edge, and that was not his only concern. Inside the smoky depths of the De Lally Caravan, high-rollers were amok. They got drunk on strong liquor, threw chips with losing hands, and bellowed high into the velvet-coated cabins with roaring laughter. They acted like wild animals without rules or reason, as Leon mentioned not everyone needs to know.

And the women—Emil was initially shocked at their boldness, the way they exposed their legs and shoulders made him flush until he realized they were just as dangerous as the men if not more. How their nails and tongues could dig under his skin and swallow him whole was something he had to watch out for when first starting out in this private clique.  

Here at present, however, Emil is used to this behavior. He adjusts quickly and takes everything as is. When the time comes that he should be concerned about something, Leon tells him he will know. Until then, the bet circulates around the table like an ashtray at a smoking convention. Cécile is among some of the gamblers tonight, and anyone brave or foolish enough to go against her is in for a real treat.

As Emil watches from the sidelines, he sees the way the owner of the De Lally Caravan conducts herself. The slender curve of her hand is graceful and elegant as she draws her cards and fans them teasingly at her guests. Emil cannot see her eyes, and yet, he has the distinct feeling she is drawing them in with a shroud of prideful mystery. Whether it stands as an invitation or a threat is up to the interpreter, but all the same, she gets what she wants and then some.

Like Emil, Cheng, the co-host, observes the tables with gliding, watchful eyes in the same shade of gold as his cousin. He never fails to steal a glance at his cousin’s table as if making sure things will not get out of hand. Emil cannot imagine things ever being so. Leon may be rash and bold, but he is reserved in that he knows his limits. Perhaps that is where Emil finds him just tolerable enough.

“You’re troubled today, Mr. Steilsson,” Cheng notices when he approaches close enough to his ears and away from curious ears.

“Me?” Emil is flattered that the oriental man expresses concern towards him until he remembers his bet with Cécile. “It must be the air.”

“You’re not used to Knale’s atmosphere, I take it.”

“Yes.”

Cheng agrees. “It takes over a year to get accustomed to the thick air, and I fear it will only get worse when the city builds itself up. You know they’re thinking of switching the rich and poor levels around?”

“Really?” Emil expresses some mild interest.

“With the air at the higher levels being thick, people are thinking of retreating underground and pumping clean air from the surface. What say you to that?”

The white-haired youth presses his lips together and thinks hard on an appropriate answer. Leon has taught him to know his audience. Cheng is open-minded and cares for his best interests. However, he is intelligent enough to know that he needs to build his character’s credit and reputation****. If he appears to put the city before himself, it will be easier to get what he wants, and that, in a nut, is what makes Cheng so formidable and yet so likable.

“I think instead of trying to run away from their problems, they should try to fix them,” Emil says.

Cheng’s eyes glow behind his thick glasses, and his smile turns from polite and shallow to warm and inviting.

“If the city would just clean the air and limit the use of coals and gasoline, the air would be cleaner—steam, too, or just the means of heavy transportation. After all, even water acts as an irritant towards our atmosphere.”

“You’re quite right, Mr. Steilsson,” Cheng continues smiling. “You know, I was afraid Leon would turn you into someone like him, but I think you’ve become quite a wonderful member of the De Lally Caravan.”

“Thank you, sir. Coming from you, that means a lot,” Emil says and means it.

“Not at all.” They part ways and conduct their own business, Cheng acting as an appropriate host and Emil his quiet little confidant self. The men and woman spill their woes and troubles all over him, as he is quick to smile and easy to approach. He presents himself as a new minnow and gets hooked and reeled again and again. The lures are cast, and he is more than willing to bite. The rumors circulate until he finally finds out who last won the bet, a plump fat cat suffering from obesity and asthma. He is utterly disgusting yet slathered with women and money. Emil wonders how they will obtain the city from him and who he even is, but before he can calculate, he sees who is playing at the table with him.

The words “chips” and “the bet” swim into his head, always “the bet.” Leon is sitting across from the man, his legs crossed, and his smile unrelenting. His dark brown hair sweeps down the sides of his jaws; his golden eyes stare straight ahead. Emil does not know the hands. No one ever taught him how to play, only to talk.

But in this game, Emil doesn’t need anyone to tell him who is winning. The fat man is sweating bullets. He frustratingly chews on his tobacco stick and snacks on a sweet cake in his free hand. Every centimeter of his skin is covered in a sweating hot pink that makes him appear to be a pig. He even snorts to Emil’s surprise.

And then…

“Dead Draw,” Leon smiles politely and shallowly. He points to the man’s hand, and he furiously throws it down. Emil does not remember the cards because in that moment, the man explodes in a raging fit.

“You cheated!” he roars. “There’s no way you could have avoided the draw! I demand a rematch!”

Leon is calm. He holds his temper, lesson number one. “Sir, there were many eyes watching the entire time. No one said anything because there was nothing to say. I always play fairly as the words that come out of my mouth. And now if you would be so kind to acknowledge my skills, I believe I have won the bet.”

“Like heck-a-roni you did!”

Emil cannot remember the details exactly. He remembers hearing the women scream and the table fly into the air. A flash of something shiny and silver rises in front of him, and a bang goes off. The caravan members are alarmed, turning their heads towards the noise, the lot of them. Cheng and Cécile rise to the call, and a collection of men in dark red and black-striped suits seize the fat man. Emil does not know what happens to him. Someone grabs his hand while he is occupied and pulls him out of the room, through the door, and sailing into the air in a free fall.

Presently, his stomach is heaving into his back. His lungs are ready to pop. He is going to explode in every essence his mind can comprehend. He doesn’t even need to worry about trying to kill Leon now. They are both going to die like this.

The city’s floor is a long way down. High above the rest of the metropolis, there are still layers of society and classes they will need to fall through in order to reach their maker. Emil is honestly surprised there is nothing below them to break their fall, and so, with the last of his living breath, he screams at Leon.

“If we don’t die, I’m going to kill you!” he shouts.

“A poor choice of final words, my friend!” Leon laughs. He is absolutely insane.

“I hate you!”

“Understandable!” Leon grins. “With me winning our bets, I take it you won’t be a happy sport if we both die!”

“Are you mad?! We lost both of them! I’m not cut out to be part of your crazy circus, and you’re no friend of mine!”

“On the contrary, you played your parts both adequately, and for that, I win!” Leon insists with a smile. Emil will punch his teeth out if that is the last thing he does. He does not want the image of Leon grinning in faulty triumph to be last image burned into his soul. So, reaching his hand out in free-fall as the contents of his stomach threaten to expel, he grabs ahold of Leon’s collar and pulls him in for a gratifying punch when they stop midway into a roped net, conveniently rolled out for anyone or anything unfortunate to drop from the skies.

“Right where we wanted to be,” Leon says and gets to his feet. He pulls a shaky and beet-red Emil up to his feet and tells him to press on. He fears there will be men pursuing them for the rights to their city, and they must make quick haste if they want to complete their bet. “Come along, my friend. We need to hurry if we’re to catch the train.”

“Train?” Emil echoes against his heart hammering into his throat. “What train?!”

As if on cue, the loud whistling sound of a steam-powered train blows from underneath them. With this being the high-end district, there are several carts dragging along behind the engine, presenting a perfect opportunity for the daring and willing to jump onto its back.

Leon is already prepared and willing. Emil, on the contrary, is not.

“I’m not jumping!” he yells against the shrill whistling.

“Oh, but you are! We have a deadline to meet. The city is within our grasp, Emil, my good friend! We just need to take it!”

Before Emil can reply to such an absurd piece of nonsense, something gives way from underneath him, and he falls down, down, down onto the open railing. He screams—loudly. The whistle mutes his voice out and cloaks his senses in a blinding blur of colors, metal, and steam. In a matter of seconds, he lands flat on his bottom and starts to roll backwards with the train’s ongoing momentum. Again, he screams.

Leon comes gallantly to the rescue, offering a leg for him to latch onto and grabs ahold of one of the steam engines many railings. As the steam pours from the engine’s spout and the whistle huffs and puffs like a ravaging, active volcano, so, too, does Emil explode and erupt.

“I’m going to kill you, Leon!” he shouts into the abyss. Leon elegantly ducks as a bridge runs overhead and meets Emil face to face on the train’s scorching surface—or so it would be had it not been for their heatproof fabrics.

“And how are we doing aboard the six o’ clock westbound train today?” he asks, laughing all the while.

“Terribly!”

“Don’t worry, Emil! You’ll change your mind about me as soon as we reach the city hall, we will live like kings! The city belongs to us! It is ours!”

Leon has gone insane. Emil is sure of it. Everything his mentor once told him and helped mold him to be flies out the window like the rest of his hopes and aspirations. He is truly hopeless. He will never be free.

The train takes them through the city until it stops at the city hall, a grand structure lined with stainless brass and steel alloys forged in a metallic masterpiece of workmanship. Had Emil not been boiling with rage, he would have taken some time to appreciate the craftsmanship of the figures towering over the city.

It bothers Emil the entire way as he leaps off the steam engine and follows stubbornly after Leon towards the city hall: how did one know he or she won the bet? Does anyone ever come to pass that the city doesn’t belong to someone without physical evidence? Emil questions this all the while as Leon takes off, opens the door into the city hall, and strolls right through the velvet ropes and over to the other side. Emil hesitantly follows, his eyes wandering and wondering. No one pays them any mind as they make their way to the supposed seat of the mayor. Emil wonders if this is a good idea. No doubt, they will be thrown out by security if someone so wishes to do so.

“Leon, is this a good idea?” he doubtfully asks.

“Anything’s a good idea so as long as you twist the words in the right direction, Emil,” Leon answers, his back constantly turned.

“Yes, but, seizing the city in a manner of just strolling inside and playing mayor isn’t how one goes about winning a bet.”

Leon laughs, his back always turned. “Emil, your naivety wounds and amuses me. The entire bet is no more than a fanciful bedtime story to keep your hopes and dreams alive. There are parts that will never come to pass, and then there are the parts that come true if you believe.”

“Believe…?” Emil can say no more.

“Yes, and once we get there, everything will be open to you, Emil.”

He would have just left right there. There is nothing else going for him. Emil really can leave. He looks presentable, he can make himself charming if he wants, or he can just move back home and live out the rest of his days as a peaceful, never-knowing dreamer. And when the airships fly overhead, he will no need to wish. He will watch them fly towards Knale and never think on joining them because he will be happy. More importantly, he will be free.

They make their way to the ends of the hall adorned with velvet drapes and the hard casted brass shaped into pillars. Against the orange lights in the room, the brass looks like gold. Leon hurries forth and moves to the door. Emil watches as he swings it open and bursts forth into the empty room with no seat and no security.

“Emil, over here!” he excitedly calls. Never in his two months of knowing Leon has he seen his mentor so excited before. He appears to be seventeen, his golden eyes seeing more than false promises and his smile bright and wide, deep and genuine.

Sighing, Emil goes over and realizes he has lost. Leon is an impossible equation, a preposterous theory, a mathematical phenomenon. He is all that and more. How he dances about the mayor’s office without a chair and steps onto the desk appalls and fascinates Emil at the same time. He watches him throw documents into the air and collect notes, checks, and heta strewn about. Pure anarchy. And under this roof in this hall, under this guise of a leader and owner of the city, Emil feels a wonderful sensation. His heart swells, and his lungs feel like bursting like balloons. He smiles, too.

There is no chair in the office, so Leon spins around behind the desk and talks in his most mayoral voice. “Mister Emil Steilsson, from this day on, you are liberated of your contract with the De Lally Caravan and free to do what you please in my wonderful city—”

“Thank you, Leon—”

“but…! On the condition that you become my friend.”

“And how, then, will this make me free?”

Leon warmly smiles. “Well, you need something to tie you back here when I’m bored. You’re still free to do what you please. Go home if you want, but I’d always appreciate a visit. Ah, and as for the bet…” He seizes one of the checks floating around the room, grabs a pen from the desk, scribbles an amount down, and hands it to Emil. “For your troubles. It has been an honor.”

Emil looks at the amount. Fifteen thousand heta as promised. Chuckling, he pockets the check and adjusts his tailcoat suit. “I suppose this is where we parts ways, then, my friend.”

He sees a spark on Leon’s eyes at the last two words. However, he has already won this bet, and because of that, he is truly free.

“Well, Emil, you win. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

“And where will you go from here?”

“Not home just yet,” he replies. “There are things I would like to rekindle with Cécile and Cheng before I go. And maybe now that we’re friends, we can do something...normal together.”

“I’d like that,” Leon smiles. “I’d like that splendidly. So that means you’re not going to kill me?”

Emil does not even need to think about it. He has been taught to be quick and charming. His holds his temper and smiles without any knowing reason. “Not today, my friend.”