Copyright © 2015
ICOSA Entertainment, LLC
Pure Steam is a registered trademark of ICOSA Entertainment, LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in review, without permission in writing from the copyright holders.
All characters featured in this work are fictional and any resemblance to real persons, past or present, are purely coincidental.
Cover art by Bekah Crowmer.
This book is dedicated to all those who run their lives with grace and conscience. May your roads and travels be smoother than Bigby’s! ;)
Chapter 1, or, “Montrose: Best Dishes and Low Rent! Guaranteed!”
Bigby Dolan sat huddled atop the driver's seat on the lead car of a four-team caravan. The roads southwest out of Cuttsford Gap were poorly paved and even more poorly maintained, given the assumed lack of traffic through the low mountains into Pennoncelle. The steam billowed around him as it plumed out of the little boiler in the engine just below his seat; the car itself bounced lightly as they moved slowly along the road. Following him were three horse-drawn long coaches filled with crates marked with the blue star for medicine. The Order of Lucretius was well-known (though not entirely well-respected), and it had given Bigby cover on more than one occasion. Border patrols and customs officials had been lax of late, and Bigby hoped that the alchemical potions that lay beneath the straw-packed medicines would go unnoticed should they get stopped.
Two of the hired hands at the back of the caravan began to sing, and Bigby cringed. Leatherfeet were great marksmen, Bigby could not deny that (and it was the major reason he hired them on a regular basis), but they had the unpleasant habit of being inane and backward. The singing would give them some needed credibility to their mirthful disguise as part of the Order. Bigby did not relish any further trip with them, though, as he had had his fill of Leatherfoot cacophony from the family that lived just beyond the creek from him. The music was incessant and droll.
Bigby's armored cart crested the rise they had been climbing for some hours. In the valley below, the town of Montrose lay before them. It was one of his favorite sanctuaries and from there he would be able to plan his further travels and hire new hands. He would need more arms with the haul he had—his biggest in months—and he would need reliable and reasonably priced information. The car bounced through the ruts down the graded path into the valley, and Bigby kept a close eye on the woods that surrounded the town and crept up the hills. It was not uncommon to run into town officials or trade raiders or both. The drivers on top of the cars behind were doing their job, as well, Bigby noted with pleasure.
They rounded a turn in the road, as it switched back on itself to account for the steeper decline, and an official blockade awaited them. Bigby groaned. It was a new structure, but it looked permanent; he felt a hint of anxiety, feeling as though they knew that this particular road was one of the more well-traveled routes for his ilk. It seemed the fledgling government in Summit City was trying to appease its backers by increasing its attempts to stop smugglers like Bigby. With a whistle and a motion of his hand, he brought the caravan to a stop as they approached the blockade.
“Afternoon, gents,” Bigby called.
The guards gave a collective nod.
“Gather over here,” one of the guards called. He looked to be a higher official, if only minutely, with a series of pins affixed to his plain, green uniform.
The man motioned to a little green space next to the road that had been cleared of brush, apparently to allow travelers to wait. Bigby feigned a hobble as he got down from the wagon, his bearded face holding pleasant cherubic expression, but his emerald green eyes were restless beneath his canted beaver pelt top hat. Following after him were the two Leatherfeet at the rear of the caravan and his three tallman escorts.
“Sorry for the trouble, brother,” one of the guards said. The others shot him a glare, and he visibly winced.
The Order of Lucretius was not a religious group, but the mission of charity was one that most folks viewed with some mild disdain—a view not entirely perpetuated by the government but certainly not condemned. Ullera loved its money; giving things away, especially to the impoverished or under-served, seemed counterproductive, if not slightly countercultural.
The guards were quick with their work. One of them stayed with Bigby and his men. The others went through each coach individually, checking each crate but not opening them, thankfully. When the lead guard reached Bigby's wagon at the head, he paused. He motioned for one of the other men to unload a small box with a sturdy, steel clasp.
“What's in here?”
Bigby turned slowly to look at them. “Beg pardon?”
The lead guard stared hard at Bigby, challenging him to slip up. Bigby held the man's gaze. In all his 62 years, he had dealt with clydesmen, Leatherfoot Halflings, tyrants, and everything in between far worse than this pond-scum of an official.
“What,” the guard finally repeated, “is in this box?”
“Personal effects,” Bigby replied.
“Your personal effects reek,” the guard said. “A little like there might be potions or herbals in here.”
Bigby continued to hold the guard's stare with placid resolve.
“You wouldn't be sneaking potions into Montrose, would you, brother?”
“Of course not,” Bigby said.
“Then let's have a look in the box,” the guard said.
“Is that quite necessary,” Bigby asked. “I promise it is merely some small items. And some food.”
“Open it.”
Bigby sighed and faked the hobble over to the coach. He pulled out a ring of keys from his coat pocket. Looking up at the men who towered over his gnomish form, Bigby gave a mock look of chastisement for daring to be so crass with such an honorable member of the Folk. He separated the appropriate key and opened the chest.
The three men who stood around the box quickly backed away at the odor that wafted out. Bigby looked into the chest, and then at them.
“Not particular to White Ant Hills pie, eh?”
It seemed a great task for the men to not lose their lunch on the spot. Bigby's favorite dish—and easily the best ruse he'd ever happened upon—was a piece of half-cooked red meat with roots and tubers wrapped in a thick coating of old cheese and milk-soaked sheep's cloth. It was then wrapped in waxed paper and would be cooked when everything had fermented to his liking. This early into the journey, it wasn't even close, but it smelled strongly nonetheless.
The caravan was quickly ushered on its way with the arrival of a group of farmers. Bigby was thankful for the hustle into Montrose, but he would have to be mindful of the roads ahead and secure his cargo without drawing unwanted attention. A particular food favorite might not deter everyone.
* * *
Once the caravan had been seen to at the stables of the Whistling Pines, Bigby slipped in through the side door and settled into a table by one of two fires in the hotel. It was a spacious place, with a suitable saloon that would accommodate at least six or seven dozen patrons on a busy night, and a host of rooms on the second and third floors. A light orchestra of delicate strings and playful winds sang throughout the saloon, piped to every corner from phonograph horns, along brass tubes, and out of a nickelodeon that occupied one wall. Bigby held a fondness for the place, having spent a few years in one of the smaller rooms on the third floor after he'd escaped from the Atanak Empire to the north. They had welcomed him here, and given him a place of solace while he recuperated with the group of refugees Bigby had managed to lead through the rolling hills. What a strange bit of luck that had been, he reminisced.
“Hello
, brother.”
Bigby looked up at the voice at his elbow. The man was tall, more so than most humans were given Bigby's height, and dressed in finery that was particularly out of place in Montrose: his trousers were neatly pressed with the bottom hems turned up ever so slightly, his shirt a pristine white with a black smoking jacket and green, paisley, silk cravat. And unlike most men of his day, the man did not wear a hat, for fear that it would muss up his neatly coifed hair.
“Edgar Marlby.”
Bigby stood and extended his hand in the tallman fashion. Edgar reached down and shook it firmly, smiling at the gnome.
“Good to see you, friend,” Edgar said.
“And you,” Bigby replied.
With a sweep of his long arm, Edgar motioned to a door at the back of the saloon, which was closed. Beyond it, two burly men lingered in laborers’ clothes, though Bigby knew them both as bruisers: tucked neatly away in their belts were collapsible, brass batons Bigby had seen them use more than once on unsuspecting thieves or harassers.
“Shall we retire for a meal and some pints?”
Bigby nodded and headed to the door. The two bruisers gave Edgar a nod and opened the door for him; after he and Bigby had passed into the room beyond, Bigby heard the sliding of the bolt on the other side.
Bigby settled into a seat at a low table that Edgar always was kind enough to provide for his meetings with Bigby. Dainty tunes from the nickelodeon could still faintly be heard. The room was cramped otherwise: three chairs sat around the little table with a squat wash basin against the wall, and a second door leading to the back hallway of the Whistling Pines. Bigby had seen that hallway many times, running potions in and out of town, slipping out through the back alleys that led into the wilds.
“I have good news and bad news, friend,” Edgar said. He poured each of them a healthy glass of spirits from a bottle on the table.
Bigby furrowed his brow. Bad news generally meant less money; good news meant more: both of them probably meant no money, knowing Edgar Marlby. He had probably come up with some trade in goods and parts and supplies, that would inevitably lead to Bigby having to sell off his wares at a lesser cost.
“Bad news first, then, I guess,” Bigby said.
“It's worse than usual,” Edgar said.
Bigby could see that he was genuinely hesitant. A socialite like Edgar was adept in his words. He could talk his way out of a firing squad if he wanted to; Bigby had seen him nearly do exactly that when they'd arrested him for inciting a riot over a bread tax. To see him so morose, Bigby wondered if he even wanted to know what the news was. Money would never make Edgar look this forlorn.
“Go on, then,” Bigby said.
“I got word from Humbert by wire that they raided your house,” Edgar said after a few false starts. “It was the Boerners.” Bigby knew the name. A clannish local family of wild-eyed zealots and vigilantes. He’d dealt to them before; no honor among business partners. “Said he salvaged some goods after they'd gone, but most of it was destroyed or burned.”
Bigby stared at Edgar. Bigby had been out of a home before. Hell, he'd been without his freedom for years out of his life. If there was a silver lining, and he always liked to think there was, then it was that he was nowhere near his house.
“Why?”
“A warrant out for you,” Edgar answered. “The government is tracking down as many known smugglers, runners, fences, and everyone else that they can. They're trying to show the investors in Millionaire’s Town that they know what they're doing.”
Bigby huffed. Money seemed to be the one thing that the lofty wig-wearers worried about. How to handle it was another issue. Outside of that, though, they seemed to be increasingly inept and annoyingly invasive.
“So what's the good news?”
Edgar smiled, his fake gold teeth glinting in the pale light of the incandescent lamps.
“They don't know where you were headed,” he replied. “Humbert says they had to divide their resources and check every established trade route out of the Abolition Trail. You know that could take them days if not weeks.”
“What does that mean, then?”
“It means I can get rid of your stuff,” Edgar said, “and then we can figure out how to get you out of town and somewhere safe.”
“I'm going to need money and papers,” Bigby said.
Edgar's grin broadened. “I'm already working on it,” he said.
“I suppose I should have known you would be,” Bigby replied.
“One day, Biggs, you'll learn to trust me.”
“Don't count on it.”
“I know. I know,” Edgar said. “Only trust a man you wouldn't kill.”
“Well, I certainly wouldn't wait in the alley for you,” Bigby said with a chuckle.
Edgar laughed. He pushed a second glass to Bigby, who'd quickly downed the first, and they toasted one another.
“To health,” they said.
After they had finished the second glass, Bigby set his down with a flourish and pushed it aside. “I can't stay here,” he said.
“You have to,” Edgar said. “You can't just stumble off into the woods or try and make it down the road—”
“I mean at the Pines, Edgar.”
“Oh. Yes. Well, that might be wise, yes. Let me think a moment.”
Outside the room, Bigby heard the bruisers talking with someone in muffled voices. It was a calm debate, it seemed, but Bigby could tell that they were somewhat heated and steadily being pushed closer to the door.
“Your place,” Bigby blurted out.
“Oh. Well, I suppose—”
“It'll do for now,” Bigby said. He pointed to the door. “They're outside.”
There was muffled shouts from outside the door. The bruisers were doing their best to hold the men off. The handle rattled.
“They couldn't be,” Edgar started. “Boerners don't know you're here.”
“They don't know I’m in this room, no,” Bigby replied, “but they know I might be in town.”
The handle rattled again, and Edgar looked at it and then back at Bigby.
“Out the back, then,” Edgar said. Edgar looked ruefully at the near empty bottle of liquor. “Such a waste.”
Bigby grabbed his arm and pulled him through the back door. The hallway was dimly lit without two hanging lamps—one at either end of the corridor—though the Folk’s eyes adjusted easily before he turned and headed toward the back door of the hotel. It opened into a narrow alley that separated the Whistling Pines from a row of woodworkers’ stalls. The smell of straw and cut timber was heavy in the air, and the tinge of lacquer was evident—something new was being built in the town: Bigby loved the smell of industrial progress.
Behind them, Bigby heard the faint splintering of wood as the door to the back room gave way.
Ahead, a caller yelled, “Sefologia Housing Units! A hot water heater in every room! Guaranteed!” while passing out flyers.
Edgar slipped past Bigby and motioned for him to follow. They turned left out of the door and made their way west along the alley. Bigby watched as Edgar poked his head around the corner of the three-story building and looked both ways down the lightly populated road that the alley emptied onto. He looked back at Bigby and waved for him to follow again. They turned right, and Edgar and Bigby blended seamlessly into the meager crowd before coming out onto the main boulevard through Montrose and disappearing into the large market-day traffic. If the Boerners were behind them before, they would have lost them to the rabble now.
* * *
Bigby sat alone in the parlor of Edgar Marlby's small apartments above the general store that the tallman owned. It was the perfect location for Edgar's true occupation: secreted away in the back rooms for storage, Edgar housed the goods—like the alchemical goods that Bigby had hidden in the lower segments of his medical crates—which he could sell at a premium to the black market citizens of Montrose and beyond. Edgar had been Bigby's best contact since before Ullera’s cap
ital had moved to Summit City, as long they had known one another, and Bigby knew that if there was anyplace he would be safe, it was in the confines of Edgar's hideout.
The door opened quietly, and Edgar slipped into the room. Bigby looked up from the newsprint he had been reading.
“We need to get you some money,” Edgar said. He walked to the small wood-burning stove and pulled the kettle off the eye and emptied it into two ceramic mugs. Walking over to the table that was set against the wall facing the street, Edgar deposited the steaming cups of tea and then reclined into the chair opposite Bigby. “Then, we need to get you out of Montrose. The longer you stay here the easier it's going to be to find you.”
Bigby nodded. “I don't have any collateral,” Bigby said. “Unless you can advance me something until you're able to sell the potions.”
“I'll figure it out, old friend,” Edgar replied.
Bigby raised the cup of tea to his lips and sipped it gingerly, careful not to burn his lips, as was his tendency. Edgar stood, his tea untouched, and walked to the window to look out over the broad thoroughfare outside. Bigby watched him, cup held in hand, and pondered his friend's decision to help him.
Bigby had never relied on someone quite as much as he had on Edgar. Bigby had escaped the Rageaic slave camps of Atanak years before, had relied on his own cunning and fortitude to weather the cold mountains with a group of fellow refugees. His skills in alchemy had been mostly self-taught from bootleg pamphlets and learning by doing—Bigby absently ran his fingers along his scarred ear and half an eyebrow that was stolen from him by just such a negligent bit of doing—and his business dealings were all from his own connections. Somewhere along the line, though, Bigby had apparently gained a trustworthy friend in Edgar Marlby, which was a surprise. While he knew that he could count on Edgar, Bigby had a momentary pang of panic realizing that he might well trust someone, which meant he had something to risk if Edgar were ever in trouble. He didn’t want to go back down that road again.
The Alchemist's Run Page 1