A Study In Ashes Part 46

Bancroft's flesh pebbled in disgust. "What did Harriman do to deserve such an end?"

The knife p.r.i.c.ked hard enough to draw blood. "You do not remember?"

Bancroft's heart was pounding now, but the fear was clearing his head. "Harriman was versatile. He did many things."

The knife jabbed again.

"All right, all right." Bancroft had been the brains, but Harriman was the actual perpetrator of the forgery scheme. "He hired goldsmiths from China. A dozen workers in all."

"A dozen workers and my brother, the one you called Han Zuiweng," the figure said, the words little more than an angry hiss.

Bancroft shuddered at the name.

"Harriman confessed that he paid my brother to kill the others, but he swore that it was you who killed my brother."

Of all the moments for Harriman to start telling the truth. "It was Harriman."

"He swore it was you. Who should I believe?"

"Do you trust the word of the man who accused your brother of murder?" With glacial slowness, Bancroft edged his hand toward the night table.

The knife flashed viciously, biting into flesh. Bancroft began to cry out, but the knife was back at his throat, a hand across his mouth and nose, all but cutting off his air. The move had been almost superhuman in its quickness.

"Silence! Just because my grandfather was courteous to you, that does not mean I shall extend the same favor."

So this was the little flower of a girl he had seen peeking through the doorway? His heart pounded double-time. He could smell a woman's scent on the slim hand that gripped him like a vise. The unfamiliar mix of the feminine and the deadly coiled his guts with terror. "You sent the note at Duquesne's?"

"Not I, but one of my kin. After we had sated our wrath with Harriman's flesh, we had let you slip from our minds until you came knocking on our door, waving your coin. Our thirst for vengeance was suddenly reawakened. You see, our mother trained us-brothers and sisters-for a special kind of work. She also trained us to look after each other."

The hand left Bancroft's mouth, and he gasped. He felt blood, hot and sticky, trickling over his hand. "What do you want?"

"Reparations must be made, my lord. I want reparation for my brother's death. That is the custom of the Kingdom of Ashes, and you have rung the bell at our gates."

"He was a killer!" Bancroft gritted his teeth, pain and fear heating his temper.

The woman's voice was implacable. "He was my brother. If it makes you less confused, call him my brother knife, for we were made to be two blades s.h.i.+ning on midnight silk."

"Harriman was your blood money."

She gave a huff of contempt. "He was not worth a jug of cheap wine. When the time is right, the underground will name its price."

And suddenly the figure had withdrawn to stand by the lace curtain, so fast she had moved before his eyes could follow. "Do not think to escape. Harriman tried it, and discovered that he had nothing with which to run."

And the figure slipped through the window, a drop of ink that left no stain. Bancroft fell back to the bed, and then plowed his fist into the pillow, speechless with rage.

One might ask what we know of this Prince Edmond. He is said to be an affable country lad with a ready smile and a fondness for witty conversation. And somewhere between pints of ale, he's managed to a.s.semble an army of makers without the Steam Council's notice. We say give the bloke a try-the Empire could use a bit of pluck.

-The London Prattler.

London, October 14, 1889.

PENNER TOY AND GAMES.

1:30 p.m. Monday.

"WILL YOU CONTINUE to help Alice? Regardless of what happens?" Tobias asked, worried by his father's haggard appearance, but worried even more that he would say no. "It's not her fault who her father is."

They were once more in the back of Bucky's factory, but it was largely deserted. Bucky and his most loyal workers were out giving the news to the locals that the prince's armies were only a day outside the city. Those not already involved in the skirmishes to the north and east of the city were to stand ready to rally. Tobias coughed, his lungs wet and aching.

"Of course." Bancroft waved a hand. It was a curt, frustrated gesture. "Jeremy is my grandson. I'll make sure he gets home to his family and that includes his mother."

And then his father looked at him, his face a hard mask. He knew about the poison, but in typical fas.h.i.+on they'd talked around it far more than about it. "How are you feeling?"

Horrible. The drugs that Dr. Watson had given him might have been helping but it hardly felt like it. The numbness that had begun in his fingers was spreading upward. His entire right hand was clumsy now, but that was only the half of it. He felt like every organ, every joint was preparing to collapse. "It's not too bad."

His father held his eyes, acknowledging and perhaps regretting all the missed opportunities for closeness between them. It would have been the perfect moment for a statement of affection, but that bridge had burned too long ago.

Tobias reached out as far as he was able. "I'm glad we're on the same side in this affair."

But talking about what pa.s.sed between father and son was much harder than focusing on a concrete problem. Bancroft nodded and promptly changed the subject. "How are you coming with the devices?"

After the disaster with the malfunctioning aether distillation unit, Tobias had ordered all the Gold King's war machines equipped with an override on all their major systems. These could be remotely activated and some even reprogrammed from remote, handheld units. "I remember the specifications for almost everything. But I've had to rely on Bucky's workmen to construct them." His hand had lost all its dexterity. The pain of it went beyond inconvenience-as a maker, his clever fingers had defined him. "I don't know if they'll finish in time."

"They will," Bancroft said in that tone that had enforced treaties and ended careers. "I'll make sure it happens."

"Thank you." Tobias swallowed, hating the fact that he was too weak to hunt for his son and remained confined in the factory. He'd tried to split his time and strength between searching for Jeremy and working on the devices, but he couldn't hide his weakness from his wife anymore. "And thank you for helping Alice. The longer we search with no results, the more she's suffering."

"Keating is too smart a fox for the obvious. No doubt he has houses even Alice doesn't know about. Where does he keep his property records?"

"In his main residence. There will be no chance of simply strolling through the door. He may be in hiding with his hostages, but the servants will be there."

"I'm sure Alice still has a key." Bancroft gave a wry smile. "She broke into my safe, after all. This should be easy."

Tobias balked. "I don't like putting her in danger. G.o.d knows what Keating would do if his men caught her snooping."

"Give the girl a chance. It's her father and her child. She knows that landscape far better than you or I."

And yet Tobias could still picture her delicately freckled face white with fear as one of her father's hulking Yellowbacks thrust an aether rifle in her stomach. His gut went cold. "Don't tell me how to care for my wife."

"Why not? Once upon a time you seemed to need the instruction."

Tobias felt the barb twist, stirring up his own self-recriminations. He rose slowly from his seat. "Must you turn this into one of our futile sniping matches?"

"d.a.m.nation, Tobias!" Suddenly his father's face was gray with grief and fury. He rose, too, and gripped his son's shoulder, squeezing so hard that despite himself, Tobias flinched. Bancroft wore the look of a drowning man.

A beat pa.s.sed between them. A suffocating, crippling moment pregnant with defeat. Tobias groped for something to say, but failed. They'd forgotten how to speak anything but angry words to each other.

And then whatever bound them together cracked under the monumental weight of their sorrow and regrets. With a stifled curse, Bancroft turned and left the room, all but breaking into a run.

Where, oh, where has the Gold King gone?

The wretched old villain has left with the dawn With a scuttle of coal and a lamp full of oil He's left our good queen in the darkness to toil -Drinking song, reprinted in The London Prattler.

London, October 14, 1889.

MISS HYACINTH'S HOUSE OF PLEASURE.

2:15 p.m. Monday.

HYACINTH STOMPED DOWN THE STAIRS OF HER PLEASURE house, fingering the whip at her belt. She played at punishment for a living, but at the moment she wanted to lash out in earnest. "Where is Mr. Tunbridge?" she demanded, each word a jagged shard of flint. She stopped at the third stair from the bottom, using the height to glare around her drawing room.

It was all but empty. Only Gareth, the useless young lout, lounged on the sofa. He was half pet, half dogsbody, and spent most of his free time eating her food. He was also one of the few she wouldn't automatically savage when the mood was on her. He rose now, his eyes cautious. "Were you expecting him?"

"Of course I am. It is Tuesday, and it is two o'clock. He always comes for his beating at two."

"A man of regular habits, then?"

"Like clockwork," she said, biting off every syllable. "But he is not here. And neither was Monsieur Dubois, nor yet again Lady Christopher. They are my top-drawer clients, so what is going on?" She looked around the empty drawing room, experiencing a moment of panic. "Where are any of my clients?"

Gareth gave a short, solemn nod. "I don't know about t'others, but I had a word with the Frenchie."

"With Dubois?" Hyacinth folded her arms across the elaborate bow adorning the front of her bodice. Her outfit was a startling pink striped with cream, the front of her skirts cut away to display her elaborately embroidered black stockings. Men liked fantasy, and she looked good in it.

Gareth nodded.

"What," she asked, "could possibly be more enticing than me?"

"The Violet Queen offered to do him personal, like." Gareth shrugged. "No one's going to tell her to shove off."

Confusion made her sway on her ridiculously high heels, and she put a hand on the stair rail. "What would that old carca.s.s want with Dubois?" Hyacinth wrinkled her nose. "She doesn't even have to work anymore."

"Didn't you go see her the other day?"

"Yes. She was all good manners and second-best tea." But still, the woman had to be up to something. "Is that all Dubois said?"

Gareth shrugged.

"d.a.m.n it all." She turned and clattered back up the stairs. She strode to her private chambers, where she should have found a plump, pale body strapped to her chevalet-a tilting frame vulgarly known as a Berkley Horse-waiting for the first kiss of pain. She gave it a savage snap of her whip, as if the smooth wood could feel the burn of her displeasure.

Then she stood glaring at the rack of switches, whips, and cat-o'-nine-tails she'd mounted on her wall. There were more extensive collections out there, but she fancied herself an artist who had no need of an excess of tools. So then where are my regulars?

"Forgive me, Miss Hyacinth, but I overheard," said a soft voice from the doorway. It was Tigress, a new girl the Violet Queen had sent over and most likely there to spy on Hyacinth's activities. "I know my former mistress. You have the essence of what she wants."

Hyacinth's head snapped up. "What does that mean?"

The girl bowed. She was slender and dark-eyed, her black hair long and straight. A fool might have called her delicate, but Hyacinth could see the lean muscle beneath the girl's tawny skin.

"You interest her," said Tigress. "Perhaps she wishes to understand your success."

"So she takes all my customers?" Hyacinth asked indignantly.

"Forgive me if I am mistaken." The girl bowed again, retreating. "Perhaps it is not the queen, but just the war that keeps your customers away."

"I don't believe that."

But Tigress was already gone.

Irritation soaked Hyacinth's mood, coupled with alarm. The Violet Queen had been anxious to bring Hyacinth to heel, but there had to be more than an urge to discipline an underling at work. After all, if a business failed, the Violet Queen could take none of the profit. And in Hyacinth's book, the only thing stronger than money was irrational, overwhelming emotion-not exactly the response one wanted to inspire in a steam baron.

Perhaps she wishes to understand my success? Unlikely. The woman had been in the business for years, and had made it to the top. She knew what made it successful. It was something else-something more primal. Something that looked too much like what the Violet Queen had lost.

Hyacinth wanted another talk with the old baggage, and she wanted it now.

HYACINTH CHANGED INTO a more sedate ensemble-this one at least covered her ankles, if it left rather a lot of visible decolletage-and decided to take Gareth and Tigress with her. There were no cabs on the rubble-strewn streets, so they had to walk the distance to the Violet Queen's house. Hyacinth had never lacked confidence, but there were times when numbers gave one a feeling of security, and crossing London had just become one of them. Police and soldiers were out in force, but they were sorely outnumbered. Looters circled the carca.s.ses of the banks like hungry dogs, and mercenaries-the Gold King's Yellowbacks or King Coal's Blue Boys-fended them off or joined them, depending on the odds at the time.

"How much farther?" Gareth asked nervously, listening to distant rifle shots. Tigress lifted her head as if mildly interested in the noise, but said nothing.

"It's just up ahead." Hyacinth kept her voice even, even if her heart was pounding hard enough to make her light-headed. They'd seen a lot of Blue Boys in the last few blocks, and they were far enough out of Whitechapel to catch the attention of rival crews. The last thing she wanted was to get caught in the middle of a fight.

"What exactly do you hope to accomplish, Miss H?" he asked. "You can't just give the Queen of Wh.o.r.es a talking to."

"She took what's mine. She took what I laid my skin and sweat down to have. The last girl who did that to me ..."

Hyacinth trailed off. It had been a lot of years since anyone had crossed her quite that way. "It was Sarah Makepeace, who took my paint box at school. I waited until we were at archery and then taught her a lesson." But even that hadn't been the same. The paint box had been a gift. She'd cultivated her customers, and that made them more truly hers than any ordinary possession.

They turned a corner and the large, elegant house came into view. Hyacinth's two-story, in need of paint and a proper gardener, was a hovel in comparison. This place had four levels, an enormous porch, and an acre of stained gla.s.s. The grounds were no less stately, with a rose garden flanked in ornate iron benches.

Gareth gave a low whistle. "Where do the customers go?"

Hyacinth was about to say this was the Violet Queen's residence, not her wh.o.r.ehouse, but Tigress spoke up. "The pleasure rooms are in the back. You see, there are no windows. Discretion is complete."

Hyacinth cleared her throat. "I should go in alone. Sit out here and wait for me."

Tigress bowed and Gareth folded his arms unhappily. Ignoring them both, Hyacinth mounted the broad porch with its scrollwork ornamentation and reached for the bell. But then, almost of its own accord, her hand drifted to the bright bra.s.s of the doork.n.o.b and turned it.

The door opened easily and she stepped inside. The front hall, with its potted palms and black-and-white tiles, was as elegant as upon her last visit, but something was different. There are no servants. A footman should have reacted the moment she came up the porch. Now that she was inside, she should have heard a maid or the butler or even just a tweenie bustling about. Hyacinth narrowed her eyes. Something was going on-if the servants had run away, they would have picked the place clean, and there was still a valuable china vase on the hall table.