by Gareth Ward
Bot looked to Wrench. “You were at the church. Did Flemington’s behaviour strike you as odd?”
Wrench wasn’t sure she had the most objective of viewpoints. She’d only met Flemington once before and on that occasion, he’d been trying to kill her. She cast her mind back to the conversation outside the church; something had been out of kilter. Flemington had cowered behind the tomb intent on stopping them going into the church, and when his protestations had failed he’d tried to insist on going with them. “He did seem to rather change his tune.” She gestured to Plum, who mumbled in his sleep. “If you hadn’t threatened him with our terrifying thaumagician he would have been in the church with us.”
“Exactly,” said Bot.
“Exactly what?” Octavia rested her head on a tentacle, her brow furrowed.
Bot threw his arms wide open in frustration, the clank of his armoured plates filling the carriage. “He didn’t want us talking to Carwyn, did he?”
Octavia raised her chin. “You didn’t talk to Carwyn. You blew a bally great hole in his chest.”
“True.” Bot’s arms dropped to his sides. “Contrary to popular belief it wasn’t my preferred outcome. Flemington sent his mechs in as a kill squad. I at least tried to negotiate.”
The memory of the strange sensation surrounding the mechs haunted Wrench. What she’d experienced was wrong, but she couldn’t explain why. It was like looking at one of those black-and-white pictures where one moment you’d be staring at a vase and then your focus changed, and it would be two people talking. Yet, no matter how hard she concentrated on the feeling, she could only see the vase. The others were more used to dealing with the abnormal; maybe it would hold some sort of meaning to them.
“There was something else in the church,” said Wrench. “When I tried to sense Flemington’s mechs there was a force blocking me, resisting my powers. I can’t really describe it. Maybe a bit like my mind was swimming through treacle. I know that sounds weird.”
“Weird is what we do,” said Bot. “Why didn’t you mention it at the time?”
“I was somewhat distracted by trying not to be incinerated.”
“Fair one.”
Octavia pressed her hands against her temples. “Could you tell where it was coming from? Was Carwyn the cause?”
The feeling had surrounded her, like a cloud; she couldn’t pinpoint the source. Had it stopped when Carwyn was shot? Possibly, but she’d encountered no resistance when she’d played the organ or operated the church’s clockwork bells. Surely if Carwyn could sense her powers he would have blocked her there too. Or at least been less surprised by their activation. “No. I don’t think it was Carwyn.”
“So, we’re back to suspecting Flemington as the guilty party,” said Bot with a triumphant air.
The train’s brakes screeched as it pulled back into platform thirteen at York station. Plum rocked forward, his head lolling to one side. Once again Octavia steadied him. “Supposing Flemington is up to no good, what do you intend to do about it?”
“We need to investigate him, take his life apart, find out what he’s hiding,” said Bot.
“This has ‘terrible idea’ written all over it,” said Octavia. “Not that it matters, the Grand Cabal will never allow you to investigate Flemington.”
“The Grand Cabal aren’t going to know. We’ll keep it a secret,” said Bot.
Octavia’s tentacles quivered. “Right, because stealth and guile are such a key part of your modus operandi.”
“Admittedly I’m not known for my tact and subtlety, but that’s why I’m not going to do it. I’m giving the task to Plum and Wrench.”
It took three days, the burning of several markers accrued over many years of saving regulators from horrible endings and Octavia’s remarkable skills to unofficially pull Flemington’s personnel file from the Clifford’s Tower Cabal. Like most of York’s regulators, the captain was barracked at Clifford’s Tower; however, a footnote in the file mentioned he also rented rooms above Humbug and Mints confectionery shop on Low Peter Gate. This was to be the target of Wrench and Plum’s investigation.
Barely wider than the pinched lanes of the Shambles, a shadowed gloom hung over Lower Peter Gate. The merchants did all within their means to brighten their shopfronts: oil lamps flickered outside Malone’s Chandlers, bubbling rainbow-coloured elixirs graced the window of Gilmour’s Chemists and a mechanical rug sweeper marched up and down brushing the pavement in front of Beale’s Brush and Mat Warehouse.
Wrench crossed the cobbled street and took shelter beneath Humbug and Mints’ candy-striped awning. A pervasive mizzle dribbled from the sky and her sodden clothes clung uncomfortably. She noted with a certain amount of ire that Plum had surreptitiously used his powers to stay dry, a courtesy he had not extended to her. Maybe he thought it would act as motivation to encourage her to try harder in her magic practice. He was wrong. All it had achieved was to make her angry.
She peered through the lattice of small glass panes that made up the shop’s window and her mouth watered. Sturdy rectangular jars of chocolates, toffees and coloured bonbons lined the shelves. A stunning red locomotive engine made entirely from liquorice formed an edible centrepiece that took pride of place in the window.
“What do you reckon?” said Plum, fiddling with the cuff of his bone-dry damson-coloured suit. On the journey over Wrench had ribbed him about his choice of dress, which he mistakenly considered inconspicuous. Possibly another reason why he’d let her get soaked.
“I reckon we should buy some bonfire toffee. Just to maintain our cover, of course.” Wrench pushed the door open and a bell tinkled. Inside, the sweet scent of sugary delights filled the air.
“Welcome! I’m Horatio Humbug,” said a man in a frilled white apron and straw boater. His right eye was covered by an eye patch which looked suspiciously like it was made from liquorice. From his pocket he took a crumpled white paper bag and offered it to Wrench. “Pineapple lozenge?”
“What’s a pineapple?” asked Wrench.
“They’re giant lemons that grow in the Americas,” said Horatio.
“I’m not sure they are.” Plum thrust his hands into his jacket’s pockets.
Wrench retrieved a yellow-coloured sweet from the bag and popped it into her mouth. Her cheeks drew in and her eyes watered. Against all logic the lozenge conspired to be sweet and bitter at the same time. “It certainly tastes like lemon,” she said, chasing the lozenge round her mouth with her tongue.
Plum shook his head. “The fact that the sweet tastes like lemon doesn’t mean that’s what pineapples are.”
“Why would they be pineapple lozenges if they didn’t taste of pineapple? That would be stupid. You might as well just call them lemon lozenges,” said Wrench. Tart sherbet from inside the sweet leaked across her tongue and her face scrunched up. She shuddered, her skin tingling, feeling like the bitterness had spread throughout her body.
Plum frowned. “That’s precisely –”
“Would you look at that?” interrupted Horatio, pointing at the window. “It’s snowing. In July.”
Outside, the mizzle had turned into powdery ice flakes that drifted to the cobbles.
Wrench squealed, Plum’s boot landing on her foot.
“It can’t be snow,” said the thaumagician, making a symbol with his hand behind his back. “It’s probably just ashes blowing down the street.”
The door’s bell tinkled again as Horatio hurried outside to look.
An icy chill filled the shop. “What are you doing?” hissed Plum.
“What do you mean, what am I doing? You stamped on my foot.”
“Because you were making it snow.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, how could I . . .” Plum was right. The pineapple lozenge had made her mouth water, then the sherbet had made her wince and that was when it had started snowing.
Horatio stepped back inside and removed his boater. He ran his fingers through his hair, confused. “Sorry about that. I could have swo
rn it was snowing. How odd.”
“Not in July,” said Plum.
“No, not in July,” repeated Horatio to himself. “That would be miraculous.”
Plum rubbed his hands together. “Sooo, can we have a quarter of bonfire toffee?”
“And a bag of pineapple lozenges, please,” added Wrench.
The musty smell of damp decay hung in the snicket that led to the rear of the shop. Midway along the narrow passage, where the light was gloomiest, Plum stopped and pulled off his dark glasses. His eyes glowered purple. “Give me the pineapple lozenges,” he said, holding out his hand.
Wrench hesitated. Her fingers rustled the crisp paper bag nestling in her pocket. She’d done magic. She didn’t know how, and she certainly hadn’t intended it to snow, but even so the sweets had triggered the magic in her. It wasn’t enough; she wanted to do it again. She needed to feel the tingling like her whole body was surging with power. Plum was trying to take that away from her, trying to thwart her. Maybe Pippa had been right, Plum didn’t want the Brasswitches to learn magic. “No. They’re mine.”
“Look, I get it; I honestly do. Magic is like opium – once is never enough. The feeling, the power, you become addicted to it.” Plum scratched at his arms. “The thing is, you have to learn to control it otherwise it controls you.”
“I will learn. I was just surprised.”
“Which is my point. If you accidentally do magic –” The colour drained from Plum’s cheeks and he clutched his arms across his chest. “Well, bad things can happen.”
He was right, and she knew it. They were supposed to blend in, be sneaky, and she’d made it snow. Even so, she damn well wasn’t taking orders from Plum. “They’re mine. You can’t have them,” she said, squaring her shoulders.
Plum hesitated, obviously wondering whether to push the issue. He was no match for her physically, Wrench’s apprenticeship at the coachworks having built her strong and broad, but she suspected he could annihilate her with a flick of his fingers.
“I promise I won’t eat any more until we’re back on the train where you can help me practise safely.”
“Good enough.” Plum replaced his glasses and carried on down the passage.
A tatty wooden door with peeling paint blocked the back stairs. Wrench reached out to the door’s lock with her mind and encouraged it open. Despite her disdain for Flemington, a feeling of guilt stole over her. Bot may have directed them to break in, but their burglary wasn’t officially sanctioned by the Grand Cabal. Only the four of them knew of the mission. If they were caught would Bot deny all knowledge to save his precious Thirteen? She pushed the thought from her mind and eased the door open.
A set of rickety stairs led to the flat above the shop. A sudden weariness gripped Wrench as she began to climb. Her legs became leaden, heavy chunks of fatigue that required concentrated effort to haul them step by step up the stairs. She panted, her breathing laboured and ragged, the painful process of dragging air into her lungs an almost unbearable strain. Stumbling onto the small landing at the top of the stairs, a light-headed euphoria engulfed her. She bent over, resting her hands on her knees, willing herself to recover.
“Take a minute,” said Plum. “It’s the magic catching up with you.”
Wrench wheezed and coughed. “You what?”
“Magic takes energy. That energy comes from the cells of your body. That’s why all good thaumagicians are so skinny.”
“I’ve seen you do magic, and you don’t get like this.”
“Over time your body adapts and learns to deal with it. You’ve just done the equivalent of a magical marathon without any training.”
Her body ached worse than it had done at the end of her first day at the coachworks. The team leaders had pushed them hard, wanting to sort out any malingerers. She’d been determined to make a good showing and by the end of the shift she was exhausted. She’d wondered how she’d ever manage another day, but she had. Her body adjusted, and she’d soon become fit and muscled. Perhaps magic was the same. “Can you build up magical stamina?”
“To an extent, but there are still limits. If you’re clever, or evil, you can get energy from elsewhere: a sacrifice or magic stored in a totem that acts like a magical battery.”
Wrench fought through her exhaustion and heaved herself upright. The landing was barely large enough for them both to stand. Ahead, a grimy window looked out over the street and to her right a steel-plated door barred the way to Flemington’s rooms. “Looks like he’s got something to hide,” she said, her breath still coming in pants.
“Maybe. Or he’s just being cautious. You’ve seen some of the things we deal with. I think I’d sleep better knowing there’s hardened steel between me and any remarkables.”
“We are remarkables,” said Wrench.
“Yes, but we’re the good ones. We don’t harm people.”
Not on purpose. But she’d accidentally made it snow. Could she accidentally have activated the brakes on the Drake without knowing? She’d been only five years old at the time, and as best as she could remember she wasn’t aware of having any powers. However, the memory of that day mithered her. She remembered the fear she’d felt when the Drake’s steam turbo kicked in and the way the train had careered around the bends, tilting at frightening angles. Her father crouching down, wiping away her tears, explaining he’d designed it like that to counter the centripetal force, yet all she could do was screw her eyes tight shut and say Daddy, please make it stop.
“When you’re ready,” said Plum, rapping his knuckles on the steel.
Recoiling from her thoughts, Wrench probed the door’s mechanism. It was far more substantial than the back door’s simple mortice lock, like a puzzle waiting to be solved. She coerced the gears, tumblers and pins into cooperating and with a click the door opened a crack.
“Right, let’s see what the captain’s hiding,” said Plum, his fingers worrying at his shades.
Wrench ignored him, her mind still in the lock’s enigma. There were wheels and cogs, pistons and pinions that weren’t required, or at least weren’t required for opening the door.
His body trembling with the effort, Plum pushed at the heavy steel plate. The door swung slowly inwards.
Wrench’s brow creased. The connecting rods and cables led to a second mechanism. One with multiple laths and stirrups. Strings and flight grooves. Bolts and triggers.
“Get down,” she shouted and slammed into Plum.
With a solid-sounding twang, three crossbows released their bolts.
Wrench sprawled across Plum, pinning his skeletal frame to the floor. A trio of crossbow bolts whooshed overhead and thudded into the wall, showering them in splinters and brick dust.
“Ow. That hurts,” said Plum, squirming beneath Wrench.
“It hurts a damn sight less than those bolts would have.”
Plum rubbed his elbow through the sleeve of his jacket. “That’s going to leave some bruising for sure. You’re heavy, you know.”
“Sorry –”
“That’s all right. Just get off me.”
Wrench pushed herself upright. “No. I meant sorry, I must have heard incorrectly, because I was expecting some sort of thanks for saving your life, not pathetic whingeing and ungentlemanly comments about my weight.” She offered her hand to Plum and hoicked him to his feet. He was surprisingly light.
“Thanks,” said Plum. His eyes fixed on the damage done to the wall by the bolts. “And thanks for saving me from a horrible death.”
“Any time,” said Wrench. Except it wouldn’t be any time. The image of Plum being tortured in the cell played across her mind. She hadn’t saved him from a horrible death, merely postponed it.
She killed the image and brushed brick dust from her dungarees. The fabric appeared untarnished by her dive to the floor. Just how strong were her reinforced clothes? Strong enough to stop a crossbow bolt? Hopefully she’d never have to find out.
With renewed caution, she stepped through the doo
rway. The room’s floor was covered with a hideous patterned rug on one corner of which sat a well-worn armchair. Horsehair stuffing leaked from its sides where the leather was clawed and ripped. Curled up on the chair, eyeing them with a mild curiosity, lay a cat. Or at least what Wrench assumed was a cat. It had ears like a bat, eyes like an owl, each of which was a different colour, webbed feet and no fur.
“Now that’s an aberration,” said Wrench.
“I kind of like it.” Plum scratched the creature behind its ears and was rewarded with a robust purr.
Shelving crammed with a higgledy-piggledy array of books and journals filled the wall opposite the door. Star-shaped explosions of paper jutted from ragged holes in the centre of three faux encyclopedias, behind which Wrench sensed the now redundant crossbows. She let her mind wander around the remains of the room feeling all manner of machines, but nothing threatening.
“I’ll check here, you can do the bedroom,” said Wrench, gesturing to a plain oak door in the right-hand wall. Flemington gave her the creeps and the last thing she wanted to do was rifle through his underwear drawer.
It felt wrong to be handling Flemington’s possessions, digging into his personal life. They were only looking for evidence that implicated him as being involved with Carwyn, but it wasn’t that simple. Until you started reading the paperwork you didn’t know whether it was the vital clue you were looking for or, as in this case, a letter of lovesick platitudes, returned from a quite clearly disinterested debutante.
“Is there anything worse than badly written love poems?” yelled Wrench to Plum in the next room.
“Torture,” shouted Plum in reply.
“Yes, it is.” Wrench returned the letter to a sheaf of similar forlorn ramblings.
“No. I meant I’ve never been overly fond of torture. I’d take sentimental slush all day long over pillories and red-hot pokers.”