A Study In Ashes Part 2

"Look, there are already men up there putting it out." Or at least they were trying-little ants with little buckets in the vast tangle of rigging. "Wars.h.i.+ps like this one use aether distillate, which has better lift and is much less explosive than hydrogen. The s.h.i.+p is far safer than you would think."

"I hope you're right," she said grimly, "but at the rate this is going, we don't have much time to talk. You need to know what I learned aboard Magnus's s.h.i.+p before we shower down in gory droplets over Buckingham Palace."

Tobias opened his mouth to reply, but then grabbed her as the Helios fired on the Wyvern, the recoil jolting the deck. Grit and soot crunched between his teeth and his ears sang with the noise of explosion. More airmen stampeded past, their uniforms tarnished with ash and sweat. He saw them hauling out the huge, copper-sided water guns, pointing hoses at the burning rigging, but the wind of the s.h.i.+p's movement was fanning the flames.

The Wyvern was turning, gun ports swinging into view. The black s.h.i.+p was hard to see against the starry sweep of the sky, but the red eyes and smoldering jaws of the dragon-shaped figurehead leered like a demon in the dark.

"Ready harpoons!" the captain bawled, and the gunners scrambled. The flaming projectiles they called hot harpoons could turn a s.h.i.+p into a bonfire in minutes. It meant a ruthless, horrible death for the crew.

And those harpoon guns were only a dozen yards away, the sweating gunners muttering prayers to whatever dark G.o.ds they wors.h.i.+pped. A misfire with a harpoon would kill anyone who came too close.

"Let's go," Tobias said, jumping up and pulling his sister toward the cabins. He'd meant to ensure Imogen was safely away from battle as soon as he'd set foot on deck, but there hadn't even been time for that before the cannonades had begun.

She stumbled against him as he ran, gripping her hand too tightly in his fear. He banged through the hatch to the cabin deck, grateful when the door closed and m.u.f.fled the noise. It wasn't the best place to be if the rigging burned through, but it was safer than being on deck while the harpoons were in play.

The main corridor on the Helios was narrow and claustrophobic. A long, yodeling scream came from the far end where the taciturn surgeon ruled his white-walled domain. Imogen flinched at the noise, making a tiny cry of her own, and Tobias pulled her in the other direction, away from the sound. The amount of blood on the floor said the surgeon already had more than one customer.

Tobias pushed open doors until he found a tiny room at the fore with a table and two chairs. Imogen fell onto the closest seat, clearly exhausted. It was the first moment he'd seen his sister in good light since her rescue. Her hair was falling from its pins in a straggle of wheat-blond wisps. Tears tracked her cheeks, leaving pale stripes through smudges of soot.

Tobias's emotions, bludgeoned into numbness, stirred back to life. If he had possessed the least talent with those harpoons, he would have cheerfully smashed Magnus from the sky.

"I know that look," Imogen said. "What look?"

"Your older brother look." A smile stirred her features, the merest flicker of her usual self. "But right now, I need you to listen, not to thump the schoolyard bully. You've already done the brave thing by coming to fetch me."

"Your pirate captain saved you," Tobias said, surprised by his own bitterness. Had he needed to play hero that badly? Lord knew he needed redemption, but still ...

"Nick isn't mine," Imogen said. "He's in love with my dearest friend. And he might have got to me first, but you brought me back here. Yet none of that matters now. There are more dire matters than our pride."

Her voice rang whip-sharp in the silence between explosions. Imogen was normally soft-voiced and graceful, the perfect image of femininity. This mood was something new. Frowning, Tobias sat across the small table, close enough that he reached out to touch her cheek. She took his hand, squeezing until her nails bit his skin. Something boomed overhead, and dust fell from the ceiling with a sound like rain on dry leaves.

"Listen," she said, her voice quick and low. "Magnus has automatons like I've never seen before. They're far more refined. I suppose one might almost say beautiful. One of them was named Serafina."

Tobias swallowed, his mouth tasting of blood and smoke. "I know. I saw her once." The memory of the thing, seemingly alive, still made his flesh creep.

Imogen's expression crumpled, her face growing pink with emotion. "I shot her to pieces! I killed her."

Tobias blinked, putting his other hand over hers. "However realistic she might have looked, she was just a machine."

Imogen's eyes went wide, the gray irises translucent through her tears. "She was alive. And quite mad, but that was the least of it. Magnus had altered her in terrible ways. He had Father's old automatons, too. And what Father said about Anna, Tobias ..."

It was clear that she would have said more, but a jolt shuddered through the s.h.i.+p, b.u.mping Tobias like a cart hitting a rut. The rigging. It well might have been giving way. He jumped up, throwing open the locker near the wall. This was where parachutes should be stored and, sure enough, there were half a dozen stacked neatly inside. He picked one up, hating to interrupt Imogen but more worried about getting her safely home.

Another roar rocked them where they sat. Tobias grabbed for the wall, losing his grip on the parachute. Imogen started to fall, and he caught her, her thin body so light he might have crushed her with the gentlest squeeze. He could feel the tension knotting her frame, leaving her quivering like a harp string. As the s.h.i.+p tilted to evade the attack, a gla.s.s decanter slid across the table with a rasp. Tobias noted with acute regret that it was empty.

"What's happening?" Imogen demanded in a tiny voice.

Tobias let go of her and rose to peer out the window. The cabin wasn't quite tall enough to stand up straight, so he felt like a creature peering out of its burrow. He had a good view of the starscape, the blackness shrouded by veils of smoke. He squinted in one direction, then s.h.i.+fted to see the other way. Fire. But this time, it wasn't coming from their s.h.i.+p. The hot harpoons had done their work.

Nausea crawled up his throat, but he wiped it from his voice. "The Wyvern's ablaze. So is the Red Jack. We must be winning."

Guilt clawed him. All those crewmen were burning. He tried to put the image aside, but failed, breaking into a sickly sweat. Truly, he should have been glad the Helios had the upper hand, but all he felt was a different shade of panic. Before he could close his eyes, he saw crewmen leaping from the Jack, so desperate to avoid the flames that they would brave empty air. He hoped to G.o.d they had parachutes, too.

"Nick's s.h.i.+p has been hit?" Imogen said with alarm. She was up in a moment, pus.h.i.+ng him out of the way to see out the window. Her hand beat against the window, a single, hopeless gesture followed by a strangled noise from deep in her throat. "But he saved me! Does that mean nothing?"

"It's a pirate s.h.i.+p."

"He still saved me!"

Tobias's hands made fists. Sorrow rose, lashed by anger at the despair in her voice. She was right, there would be no justice. They had their orders. They were to capture the Red Jack-preferably intact, but lightly toasted would have to do. "Nick has a special navigation tool. Keating wants it for himself, and what Keating wants, he gets. The Helios is his s.h.i.+p to order."

Imogen put both hands to her mouth. "Does Nick stand a chance?"

Tobias looked inside himself and found a wasteland. "No. He's a pirate, and he stole the device from Keating in the first place. If he's caught, he'll be hanged. If he dies tonight, at least he's free." Even as he said it, he hated himself.

"He'd like that better, I think."

"Is that why Keating sent you? For the spoils of war?"

When did you get so worldly-wise? Tobias wondered sadly. When Father denied you a love match so that he could use your beauty to lure rich suitors? Suddenly he remembered that Imogen had been eloping when Magnus had grabbed her. She'd dared everything-a bright flame fighting the wind-and lost.

She pressed her forehead against the gla.s.s of the window.

He hardened his heart before he started to weep himself.

"Put on one of those parachutes. We need to be ready to evacuate."

But Imogen looked up slowly, the delicate lines of her face in silhouette against the blaze of the Wyvern. Her features were shadowed in muted sepia and gray, the combination of night and the afterglow of destruction. "Then we don't have much time, and you need to hear this. Magnus had put Anna's soul inside Serafina, and she used that body to try to kill me. She was jealous that I had lived. Tobias, she was still alive."

The words skimmed past Tobias, refusing to catch hold. Or maybe he shoved them away because they were too awful. "What are you saying?"

Her lips parted to answer.

The next instant, the Wyvern exploded, a flash of orange flaring outward from the midpoint of the gondola. A tiny part of Tobias's mind-the part that thrived on mechanics and technical theory-decided it was a malfunction of the aether distiller, brought on by excessive heat. A moment later, the enormous black balloon went up in a billow of white-hot fire, scorching what was left of the sleek gondola to ash.

Imogen's eyes flared wide, meeting his with an expression of astonishment so profound that Tobias looked over his shoulder to see what was the matter. There was nothing, the tiny room exactly as it had been a minute before. Yet as he turned back, she was falling, folding up like a scarf tossed carelessly to the floor. He barely caught her in time to ease her down.

"Imogen?" he cried. "Im, what's the matter?"

She was shuddering, fighting against a force ravaging her body.

Tobias fell to his knees and bent over his sister, pulling off his jacket to cus.h.i.+on her head. "Surgeon!" he bellowed. "Surgeon, come quickly!"

She whimpered, her back bowing as if in some terrible agony. Her fingers clutched at him, her eyes holding his as if his gaze alone was keeping her tethered to her body.

"Stay with me!" he urged. "Imogen, hang on. You know you can. You're strong."

But her eyes slowly closed, the light in them dimming as if someone had turned down the wick inside her. Fear struck deep and true, shredding him to the quick. There was little he counted on anymore, but he counted on Im. She was all that remained of an innocence he'd lost.

"Surgeon!" he bawled, but the man never came.

The s.h.i.+p jolted again, and he knew the rigging was about to give way. He could feel the s.h.i.+p descending and he could only pray they'd reach the ground before they fell. And yet that wasn't the thing he feared most right then.

His hands turned chill and clammy, clumsy as paws as he held his sister, trembling as the battle-barely worth noticing now-raged on outside. "Im?"

Her lips moved, her voice so faint he was sure he'd misheard it. "Im?"

She spoke again, and this time he bent close, putting his ear close to her mouth. "Surely I killed you?"

And then she did not speak again.

London, September 18, 1889.

SPIE HEADQUARTERS.

9:05 p.m. Wednesday.

Visitors to London never fail to be charmed by the many-colored globes of the gaslights illuminating the public streets. Swaths of gold, green, and blue glow along the horizon, an exotic panorama of the modern age. But these delights to the eye serve a practical purpose, each hue indicating which utility supplies their gas. The owners of these companies are therefore known by the colors of their gaslights-the Gold King, the Green Queen, the Blue King, and so forth. It is an altogether quaint custom that goes far to enhance the air of charm and eccentricity already inherent in Londontown.

-The Serendipitous Armchair:.

A Gentleman's Travelling Companion to London, 2nd edition.

Mother Empire is held hostage, bound and weeping, to Industrial Vampires known as the steam barons. GOLD, GREEN, BLUE, or SCARLET, they monopolize railways and manufactories, coal mines and docks. Merchants must pay to sell their wares while the POOR PERISH in the DARK and COLD. Let it be understood that the only recourse to this TYRANNY is WAR.

-Political pamphlet, Baskerville Rebellion, 1889.

THE MEMORIES OF THAT NIGHT WERE STILL WITH TOBIAS AS he walked through a dark alley, a peculiar strain of horror plucking at his soul. Anna had been Imogen's twin, and she'd died young. Lord Bancroft, their father, had confessed that he'd attempted to save Anna by allowing Magnus to transfer her soul into an automaton. That she'd survived and tried to kill Imogen ... but that was where his mind ducked sideways, refusing to engage. Had that truly been what he'd heard Imogen say? If it was, then what was he supposed to do about it? Magnus and all his creations had burned up that night. But then what had Imogen's final words meant? Surely I killed you. Had she meant Anna?

A p.r.i.c.kling of alarm surged through him, as it always did when he reached this point in his thoughts. Had Anna somehow touched Imogen at the very end? Was that the reason Imogen was ill? This was why Tobias hated magic with a virulent revulsion. It didn't make sense, but then it did. The logic appealed to a dark, hidden part of himself that was more frightening than any fireside tale. And in those terrible moments, he felt strangely like the Grail King-wounded at the heart and never able to heal, even if that healing would cure the whole world.

But really, how can I fight a ghost? And surely family ghosts were the most horrible of all. It's all nonsense. I was panicked by the battle and only imagined what she said. War plays tricks on the mind.

The click of his heels on the cobbles was a solid, rea.s.suring sound, and he clung to it like a drowning man clutches a spar of wood. I am the Gold King's maker. I build engines. I deal in bra.s.s and steel, not death magic.

He kept one hand on the Webley revolver in his pocket. The feel of the grip against his palm comforted him more than he cared to admit. He'd customized the gun with a magnetized action for switching between conventional bullets and an aether discharge-not as impressive as some of the hardware on the underground market, but it fit into the pocket of a dress coat. He'd carried a weapon ever since the battle in the sky, his innate sense of safety going down in flame and ash with the s.h.i.+ps. They'd barely made it to the ground before the rigging on the Helios turned to ash.

Soldiers referred to their first battle as seeing the elephant. It was more like looking into the mouth of the Inferno. Like everything else from that night, the image of those burning airs.h.i.+ps lurked forever just behind his eyes.

And there had been no quiet, sane life to return to. London was restless, every night putting new cracks in its facade of civilization. Rumors of rebellion gave even the lowest thief an excuse for anarchy. Even this neighborhood near Bond Street was growing unpredictable.

He turned from the alley into what was little more than a pa.s.sage between brick warehouses. The lowering shadows kicked his pulse into a higher gear, reminding him he was alone. Stopping in his tracks, he cursed himself for forgetting to bring a lantern of any kind, and then decided he was better off invisible.

Cautiously, Tobias forged ahead, finding just enough ambient light to keep from pitching into the mud. It had rained earlier, but now the sky had cleared and the ground glistened with moisture, a silver track sketched by a faint moon. Tobias took his time, listening to the squish of his boots-his valet was going to quit in high dudgeon any day now-and feeling the cool, wet air on his face.

Then the building to his left gave way to a tall fence, the signal that he'd arrived at his destination. The place was little more than a shack in an unkempt yard, but Tobias knew every inch of it; he'd spent half his time here only a few years ago. Candlelight shone around the circ.u.mference of the ill-fitting door, making it easy to find his way inside. The first thing he recognized was the smell-coal smoke, alcohol, rotting upholstery, and a lingering whiff of scorched wool. When he stepped inside, it seemed nothing had changed inside the clubhouse of the Society for the Proliferation of Impertinent Events, better known as SPIE. Still, Tobias took a good look around before taking his hand off the Webley.

"Drink?" asked Mr. Buckingham Penner, who was sitting in an armchair that appeared to have survived being launched by a trebuchet over enemy lines.

"You know me too well," Tobias replied to the man who had been his best friend ever since knee pants and toffee. The sound of Bucky's voice uncranked the muscles in his back and his breath released in a whoosh.

Bucky poured wine into elegant gla.s.ses. He must have brought them with him, because nothing so fine had survived five minutes in the clubhouse. "Do you know the remnants of that giant automated squid are still in the yard? Quite rusted now, but it certainly brings back memories."

That it did-memories replete with friends.h.i.+p and the sweet taste of irresponsible youth. There had been four charter members of SPIE, all full of ideals and devious plans. They'd scattered since, each to his own career. Of any of them, Tobias saw the least of his old companions. He walked forward and took the wine Bucky offered, tempted to drink it off at a swallow. "Those were simpler times."

"Good G.o.d, you sound old."

"I feel it."

Bucky didn't argue, but instead applied himself to his own gla.s.s with savage determination. He was a big man-he had inherited the physique of his blacksmith grandsire-but it was all fit muscle. He could hold his liquor, but he'd never sought oblivion the way Tobias had. Watching him gulp down the wine made Tobias wonder what was amiss-beyond the obvious, of course. Bucky had been betrothed to Imogen; they had been ready to elope when she had been kidnapped. Needless to say, there would be no wedding now.

"How is she?" Bucky asked, not needing to specify whom.

"Unchanged."

Wisely, Bucky didn't press the subject. He still came to sit at Imogen's bedside when Tobias's mother, Lady Bancroft, was alone in the house. She let him mourn in peace. Lord Bancroft blamed him for luring his daughter away.

"And how is your wife and scion?" Bucky asked.

Tobias blinked. It was easy on days like this-days so fraught with ghosts-to forget that he was married and had a son. But that said a lot about his marriage. It was all so d.a.m.ned complicated. "In good health."

"I'm delighted to hear it."

Unhappiness made Tobias truculent. He fell into the chair opposite his friend, dangling one leg over the arm. "So, did you ask me here just for old times' sake?"

Bucky refilled their gla.s.ses. "Do I need a reason? Maybe I just like to revisit happier times."

But Tobias knew his friend well enough to suspect there was a reason lurking in the wings. He would just have to wait to find out what it was. He looked around at the moldering furniture and the derelict worktable crouching against the wall. "Memories are like the dirty dishes after a party. Best cleaned up and put away."

"You make our past sound like a catalogue of disappointments."

Whether he liked it or not, Tobias's mind drifted back to the last of SPIE's heyday. Back then, he'd almost become the man he'd wanted to be. It had slipped through his fingers, of course, but he'd felt his own potential with all the tingling excitement of thrusting his hand into a magnetic field. That last episode-with the squid and Dr. Magnus promising him the world-had lasted for skull-popping days before collapsing like a deflated dirigible. Before he'd lost Evelina Cooper and sold his soul to the Gold King.

Disappointment? What welled up was closer to grief. Still, Tobias made himself laugh. "Too much has happened. Being here feels a bit like walking on my own grave. There's something dead in this place and I think it's me."

Bucky let his head loll back, sliding in his chair as if speared by the dart of exquisite boredom. "You always were the most maudlin b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Did you read Childe Harold one too many times?"

"I hate Byron. He whines."

"Imagine the burden of listening to that."

"Very droll." And then he remembered that it was Bucky who had asked him to the clubhouse, and the reason for going there was suddenly clear. It's Bucky who wants to remember that time. It's been a year and he still pines after Imogen when most men would have drifted away. Guilt raked Tobias, and he wished he'd thought before opening his mouth. Bucky wasn't the kind to make a show of grief, but his emotions burned stronger than those of anyone else Tobias knew. He wouldn't give up on Imogen until the bitter end.