Precipice

by Thomas Webb

  The old woman’s lips curled into a bitter smile. “That’s when Truveaux came on the scene.”

  Montclair’s ears perked up. “Truveaux?”

  The old woman nodded. “Mm hmm. ‘Senator’ Truveaux.” She shook her head. “Only in New Orleans can you run the government and a criminal empire, all in the same stroke.”

  He’d been briefed on Truveaux’s connections to organized crime in the territories, but an entire criminal empire? That was new. Montclair filed the morsel of information away for later. If they didn’t know how deep her ties to the underworld went before now, then what else did they not know? He wasn’t familiar with Truveaux from his youth, and anyone who’d amassed as much power as quickly as she had would have had to have come up under his mother’s reign. He disliked the unknown variable this added to the mission.

  Could he trust his memory? No way could he recall every single person who’d worked for his mother. There’d been hundreds, and much could change in ten years’ time. Still, not knowing ate at him. It was just the type of thing that could get people killed.

  “Hear tell the president himself was just down to see Truveaux,” the old woman said.

  Alarm claxons sounded in Montclair’s head. “Is that so?” he asked, careful to keep his voice even.

  The grande dame nodded. “Mm hmm. Quite a scene they made, Truveaux and President Smythe, taking over the governor’s offices like they did. Something going on there, you ask me.”

  Montclair shifted his cards in his hand. He said nothing, just let the silence hang. He’d found that sometimes the best way to get someone to talk was to just shut up and let them.

  “Word is,” she went on, “Smythe’s got something planned, and he needs New Orleans to do it.”

  “Why would the president need New Orleans?” Montclair asked. “He has all the power of the Confederacy at his disposal.”

  She sighed and shook her head. “Oh, silly boy.” She patted a muscular arm. “It’s always the pretty ones, isn’t it? Smythe needs New Orleans because he needs Texas, and the Louisiana Territories are the key to Texas.”

  Montclair played his part, scratching his head and asking, “You’ll have to forgive me, Madame, but… he needs the territories and Texas for what?”

  The old woman laughed, deep and throaty. “Why, for conquest, of course! How else can he subjugate the Union and the Empire of Mexico? How else to gain the one thing he can’t buy or win — the official recognition of Europe and the rest of the civilized world? Well, I’ll tell you. He can do none of those things, ma cherie, not without the might of the territories and Texas behind him.”

  It was worse than they thought. If Smythe’s plans were obvious enough that even this old woman knew of them, it was inevitable he’d see them through. This was a credible threat.

  Montclair felt the boat come to a stop. He looked at his pocket watch again and fought to keep the smile off his face.

  “That’ll never do for poker, my sweet,” the old woman said. “A grin like that means you’ve lost before you’ve even sat down.”

  Montclair slid his chips off the table, noting how much smaller the pile was than when he’d started.

  The old lady pouted behind her silk and feather mask. “Aw, off so soon?”

  “I’m afraid I have an appointment.”

  “Well, I hope you enjoy her,” the old woman said. “Smile like that means only one thing — a woman.”

  Montclair laughed.

  “Or a man?” the grande dame ventured.

  Montclair shrugged. Then he leaned down and kissed her hand. “It has been a pleasure being educated by you, Madame. Perhaps I’ll see you again during Masquerade?”

  “Perhaps you’ll take me up on my previous offer,” she purred.

  Montclair laughed. The woman was old enough to be his grandmother.

  A quarter turn o‘ the clock later, Montclair felt the whale of a riverboat shift and move, slipping away from the docks and back toward the center of the broad Mississippi. He increased his pace. The smile on his face widened as he made his way across the wooden decking.

  Montclair pushed through a throng of people until he found the stairs. When he reached the top, he spotted her at the aft railing. She watched as a paddle four times the size of a millhouse wheel churned the muddy water to froth. He slipped up behind her, pressing his body close against hers and wrapping his arms around her waist.

  She leaned back into him, speaking into his ear so that only he could hear her over the waterfall-like noise of the paddle. “I feel I must warn you that I’m with someone,” Ayita said.

  “Oh? Who’s the lucky man?”

  “He’s a soldier. A bit full of himself, but very charming.”

  Her hair still smelled of wild jasmine. He remembered the week they’d spent together after he recovered from his ordeal last year. The feel of her underneath him, the rise and swell of her breasts and hips. The scent and the taste of her. One of the best times of his life.

  She turned to face him and smiled. She wore no mask. She reached down and patted the bulge between his legs. “Seems as though someone else is also pleased to see me.”

  “More than pleased,” he said, squeezing her tighter.

  Ayita pulled his head down and placed her lips on his. They kissed long and slow.

  Finally, they broke apart. “There will be time,” she said. She touched the edge of his mask.

  “How was your journey?” he asked, feeling more at peace than he remembered being in some time. “It’s been some time since I’ve seen you.”

  She smiled, cat-like golden eyes sparkling in the afternoon light. “A long while.”

  “Too long.”

  She reached up and touched his mask again. “I’ve seen many wearing these,” she said, changing the subject. “What are they?”

  “For Masquerade,” Montclair said. “In New Orleans, this time of year we wear them. We celebrate the time of the harvest. Give thanks for all we have. And people once wore these,” he pointed to his mask, “to frighten away evil spirits who might threaten our prosperity. Now, it’s a mostly an excuse for reveling and fancy balls, a fun way to commemorate the changing of the season from fall to winter.”

  Ayita wrinkled her brow. “Your people have strange customs, my love.”

  They watched the river for a while, enjoying the breeze and each other as the boat plowed its way along.

  “Your Chieftain Grant has promised us another five-hundred square miles of land if I assist you in this,” she said. “Would you know anything about this promise?”

  The first lady had thought it would throw off suspicion if Montclair’s cover included a partner. He’d immediately thought of Ayita. He knew she could handle herself, a fact she'd more than proven when she saved his ass last year outside a remote barn in North Carolina. With her raven hair and coppery skin, she’d blend in seamlessly with the melting pot that was New Orleans. She was a perfect fit for this mission, golden eyes and all. In exchange for Ayita’s help, he’d managed to convince Mrs. Grant to give the Croatan a few hundred more miles of territory. It didn’t hurt that it gave Montclair a perfect excuse to spend time with her again.

  “Land?” Montclair asked, a quizzical expression on his face. “I have no idea what you’re taking about.” He took on a more serious look. “Wait, so you aren’t doing this just for the love of me?”

  She laughed. “Perhaps. Among other things. Have you been well, my heart?”

  He had been well. Well and true. Or close enough to what passed for true. Since their time together late last year, there had only been the two frauleins he’d bedded in Prussia, which was hardly anything at all, really. It wasn’t as if he and Ayita were married. What was he, after all, a saint?

  He asked her what news of her family and of her people.

  “My father prepares as if war with the graycoats were a certainty. This even though there has been no guarantee of it. Only talk.”

  “A wise man.”

&n
bsp; She nodded. “Yes. My people continue on as they have always done. We prepare for war but also for the coming winter. We aid our Freedmen allies when they need it, and when we are able.”

  “The Freedmen.” Montclair grinned, remembering how a band of former enslaved men and women, alongside Ayita and a Croatan nation war party, had come screaming from the forest to save them. “How is my friend, Old Jim?”

  Ayita laughed at that. “Old Jim is… Old Jim. He still speaks of you with venom.”

  Old Jim was no friend of Montclair’s. A begrudging ally, at best.

  “Is saving an entire capital city not enough to warrant that man’s respect?”

  Ayita raised an eyebrow. “You have become more at ease with your fame now.”

  “I-I suppose I have,” Montclair said.

  His exploits had been a particularly sore spot in the past, but now he made light of them without a second thought. Perhaps he was becoming more comfortable with it. The notion worried him. Or maybe it was her company that had him so at ease. That seemed more likely.

  “And what of Dustu?” he asked.

  “My adopted brother will lead war parties someday, as soon as he is old enough.” Ayita bit her lip as if in thought. “We see less and less of the graycoats now. Perhaps this is a good thing. Their focus seems elsewhere.”

  Montclair nodded, pulling her tighter. “Their focus is elsewhere. It’s on us.”

  “Us?”

  “The Union. And the Empire of Mexico.”

  ”So the graycoats would war with you and the armies of the desert as well?”

  “They would try.”

  Montclair watched as the port came into view. His heart fluttered, despite his promise to himself not to let this part of the mission affect him. But this was New Orleans. This was home.

  The pilot eased the riverboat, taller than the nearest warehouse buildings, into the dock, the motion as smooth as a gentle, summer breeze.

  Ayita took Montclair’s hand. “Come and help me with my baggage.”

  They disembarked with a flood of other passengers, many of whom wore masks similar to Montclair’s. He didn’t see Greg or the others, but they could have easily been lost among the swell. All except for Bull, that is. Montclair had asked the new corporal to come along. He might stand out because of his size, but Montclair thought the extra muscle would come in handy.

  “Monsieur!” Montclair heard someone call. “Monsieur!”

  A chill ran down his spine when Montclair spied a skinny Creole boy looking right at him. The child began to make his way over. The hackles on Montclair’s neck rose.

  “I thought no one was to know you were here?” Ayita whispered.

  His clockwerk hand gripped hers. His other eased toward the revolver under his coat. He leaned in close and spoke into her ear. “No one was.”

  The boy came right up to Montclair and handed him an envelope. “Message for you, monsieur.”

  Shockwaves ran through Montclair when he saw the seal. He stood as calmly as he could, but inside, he raged. His eyes scanned the docks, searching for anyone or anything that seemed out of place. He saw no eyes on them, felt nothing out of the ordinary.

  Montclair pulled a greenback from his pocket and placed it in the Creole boy’s hand. Montclair’s mind was elsewhere, the motions of him paying the boy as mechanical as a clockwerk.

  The boy’s eyes lit up at the sight of the greenback. “Thank you, monsieur!” he said. The greenback would feed him for a week. The child pocketed his treasure and disappeared into the crush of humanity.

  “What is it?” Ayita asked. There was concern in her eyes, worry in her voice.

  Montclair studied the wax seal. A capital “M” over crossed sabers, surrounded by a stylized wreath: the Montclair family crest, set in blood-red wax. He cracked the seal and read what was inside.

  “I invite you, under banner of truce, to join us for dinner at our family’s ancestral home.

  Do not fear.

  Your secret is safe.

  Your brother,

  -Randall"

  13 Skies Over Illinois - Near Fort Defiant, October 1866

  “I’m in your debt, Major Stevens.”

  “Think nothing of it, agent,” Stevens said.

  The petite Union major looked straight out over the airship’s bow and ahead toward the horizon, not meeting Scarlet’s eyes. As with most Union army regulars, she held a deep-seated distrust of DSI.

  “May I speak plain, agent?” Stevens asked, still looking out over the lands below.

  “Of course.” Here it comes, Scarlet thought.

  Stephens scrunched her nose, the space between her eyes wrinkling. “When Colonel Montclair first asked me to detour from our assignment, I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.”

  Scarlet gazed down at the broad swaths of farmland and the meandering waterways passing beneath them. From this height, the landscape was a patchwork quilt of tan and brown, emerald and forest green, shot through with the occasional silver ribbon of river.

  Scarlet stood at the foremost deck of the airship, her feet set wide apart, hand on her saber, the wind in her fire-red hair. She closed her eyes, letting the early morning breeze caress her skin. It was almost tranquil. Scarlet stifled a sigh and nodded, allowing the major a chance to speak her peace.

  “Then,” Stevens continued, “when the colonel added that this detour was to be kept secret… secret even from my own chain of command? Well, it’s highly irregular, to say the least.”

  Scarlet couldn’t argue with her there. The rank and file troops generally didn’t go in for off-the-books operations. It was why Scarlet preferred to work with DSI, which was obviously no longer possible. Colonels Montclair and Gregory were the only exceptions to this rule she’d ever seen, but those two were anything but rank and file.

  Major Stevens clenched her jaw, evidence of the conflict raging within written all over her pretty face. “Do you even know how many regulations I’m breaking just having you onboard? If I’m being rude, agent, then I apologize. It’s just a great deal to take in all at once, even after Colonel Montclair’s explanation of what you and your minder did last year.” The major turned to face Scarlet, looking her in the eye for the first time since she’d come onboard. “Please understand, agent, I’m as grateful as anyone to you for your role in saving Washington. But having Strategic Intelligence onboard the Intrepid, combined with the whispers of insurrection within the spymaster’s ranks, and Colonel Montclair’s asking me to keep your presence here a secret? Well, this is all…” She struggled to grasp the words. “It’s just a hell of a lot of secrets to keep.”

  Scarlet nodded. Welcome to my world. She turned from the panorama rolling by beneath their feet and looked the smaller woman in the eye. “I can’t imagine the position I’ve placed you in, Major. I can only assure you that your… your understanding won’t be forgotten. If we’re really being honest,” Scarlet gave a slight bow at the waist, “I’m completely and utterly in your debt.”

  A look of surprise flashed across the major’s face. Stevens turned away, leaving Scarlet to wonder what was going through her mind as she looked toward the horizon. When she turned to face Scarlet again, Scarlet noticed the tension in her eyes had eased somewhat.

  Stevens nodded toward the airship behind them. “I have my ship. My crew. My orders. I like orders, agent. Hell, I like order, but all you DSI seem to thrive on is chaos. Is that the life you all lead?”

  “Sometimes,” Scarlet conceded.

  Stevens shook her head. “I swear I’ll never understand you spymasters. Nor do I think I ever really want to.”

  Scarlet could hardly imagine what she was putting the young airship commander through. Maybe it was time for a peace offering.

  “Please, Major," Scarlet said, extending her hand along with the very best smile she could muster, “call me Scarlet.”

  A pause, only a few seconds, but it seemed like hours. Scarlet’s hand hung there in empty space until, finally, th
e major took it, her grasp cool and dry. Stevens even offered up a smile of her own, albeit a cautious one.

  Scarlet didn’t blame her. She had every right to be wary. With DSI, the ends had always justified the means. No matter who or what got in the way.

  The major excused herself, telling Scarlet she was needed on the bridge.

  Scarlet’s thoughts turned toward Athena and Mockingbird. After the meeting in Vindication’s war room, they’d been dropped off with two brutes and enough weapons and supplies to get them where they needed to go. Their plan was to head east, keeping as low a profile as possible. Mockingbird still had friends powerful enough to have the ear of the president, and she intended to rally them in support of ousting McCormick. At least Mockingbird hoped she still had those friends. Either way, Scarlet prayed to the Healer above for their safe return. Both Mockingbird and Athena were capable, formidable agents in their own right, but these were dangerous times.

  Unable to help herself, Scarlet’s eyes drifted back to the land below. She moved closer to the rail and looked down, thinking how breathtaking the Illinois countryside was. Her stomach climbed into her throat as the airship dipped and began its descent. She steadied herself and glimpsed over the rail, spotting their destination below.

  A tiny collection of buildings stood by the banks of the Mississippi. They grew larger in her view as the airship decreased its altitude. The buildings, now coming more sharply into focus, stood behind a high, wooden fence. Where she’d expected only a rugged outpost, Fort Defiant turned out to be an actual, full-fledged fort. Aether cannons sat atop the walls of the fort, one facing out from each of the compound’s four corners. Swivel-mounted Gatling platforms with clockwerk soldiers seated at the controls had been placed between each of the cannons. To the west of the fort, a makeshift dock floated back and forth with the river’s current. No ships were docked there that Scarlet could see.

  The Intrepid pivoted one-hundred eighty degrees on its descent, graceful as a ballerina. She dropped to a gentle hover only feet above the open fields adjacent to the fort. A group of five men and one woman strode across the field toward them. The uniforms they wore were similar to the new Union combat suits, but with a slight difference in pattern and coloring. They moved like trained soldiers, stepping on the balls of their feet, their heads on swivels, their bodies tensed and ready to spring at the first sign of trouble. Even from this distance, Scarlet saw the rifles they carried: new model #4 Madison repeaters, or “M4s” for short. They were the very latest incarnation of the standard Union army-issued repeaters. Not even Major Gregory’s elite Marines had gotten them yet. Whoever these soldiers were, they had pull.