Precipice

by Thomas Webb

  Montclair found it strange, them discussing the killing of one another’s friends with such casual ease. He was even more hard-pressed to believe his brother didn't care why he was here, especially after having so artfully spied on him. Almost unable to perceive the subtle, creeping change, Montclair found himself caring less about his brother’s motives as the evening wore on. The easy familiarity they’d grown up enjoying returned with almost no effort. It was clouding his judgment.

  “I’m afraid I’ve gotten less word about your career,” Montclair said, guilt creeping into his voice. Even after all the years and all the bad blood, his brother had followed him faithfully. Why hadn’t he done the same? “Do you have your own command now?”

  “I was recently promoted to general.”

  Montclair nearly spit out his brandy, smiling before he even knew it. “A general! Christ the Healer, Randall! That is something.”

  Damnation. His brother, a general already. The speed with which his affection for Randall returned surprised and frightened him.

  Randall smiled humbly. Maybe that was where his oldest son got it?

  “It caught me off guard as well, Julius. Apparently, a general’s staff officer-grade slot suddenly opened up last year, and I was recommended to fill it.”

  Montclair thought he detected a hint of something in Randall’s voice. Montclair knew exactly how that Confederate general’s slot had opened up last year. He’d been the one responsible for creating it.

  “Why did you invite me here, Randall?” Montclair asked again.

  Randall sat his brandy down and stared out into the darkness. “There’s talk of war again,” he said. “The Confederacy, the Union, the Empire of Mexico.”

  He looked back toward the house. Toward his wife and children. His daughter’s voice, accompanied by her mother on the piano, drifted out onto the veranda.

  “I had to see you again, to have one last, pleasant evening with my brother. Next time we see each other, Julius…” Randall paused. “Well, we’re both soldiers, aren’t we? We’re both our father’s sons. We’re both Montclairs. I couldn’t pass on the opportunity to see you once more and remember the good times.”

  Montclair felt a sharp tug in his chest. He understood all too well what Randall meant, too well to trust himself to answer. He drained the last of his brandy.

  “It’s been… wonderful meeting your family, Randall. I’d best be going.”

  Randall nodded. “You’re certain you won’t stay? You know we have plenty of room.”

  Try as he might, Randall was unable to convince Montclair to pass the night under their father’s roof, even as much as Montclair would have liked to. Accepting defeat, Randall had Montclair’s brute brought around and walked with him outside.

  Montclair grasped the pommel of the beast’s seat and leapt up onto its back. He craned his neck to the moonless sky, every star visible, a spilled pouch of diamond dust on sable velvet. Once he reached the city, the aether lamps of New Orleans would illuminate the way. There would be little light to guide the mechanical horse by until then, but truth be told, Montclair didn’t need it. He knew the way by heart.

  There was a resounding clang as Randall gave the metallic creature’s flank a pat. “Will you visit us again if you’re able, Julius?” he asked.

  “I’d like that, Randall. Very much.”

  Randall smiled. “Good. Until then, be safe. The Healer guide you on your journey.”

  “And you as well, brother.”

  There was an unfamiliar warmth in Montclair’s belly, a feeling of long-forgotten yearning for family and for home reawakened. Maybe those years of worry had been for nothing. Maybe having a family again wasn’t such a bad thing. Maybe lowering his guard, just a bit, wasn’t as bad an idea as he’d thought.

  As Montclair rode off, he turned to see Randall waving goodbye. He turned once again to guide his brute forward, never glimpsing Randall’s smile twist into a snarl, his fist curled so tight his fingernails drew blood.

  15 Louisville, Kentucky - Holly Springs Inn & Tavern, October 1865

  Kingfish held out his glass to the serving girl, not bothering to meet her eyes. “Another brandy,” he barked, “and this time, don’t be so damned stingy with the pour.”

  The girl stared daggers at Abe’s minder as she turned to fetch him yet another drink, his fourth since they’d arrived. Abe looked at Kingfish. The man’s rumpled clothes, face barely shaven, his lack of bathing not at all disguised by the generous application of herbed oils. His stench, a stomach-churning mixture of sage and soured body odor, assaulted Abe from across the table. Inside one of the most prestigious taverns in Kentucky, Kingfish stood out like a lighthouse beacon.

  For the hundredth time, Abe wondered how he’d been paired with a man like this. He thought of their mission, all the months and weeks of planning, the painstaking surveillance that had gone into it. Now, the entire operation was in jeopardy, all because his drunken mess of a minder no longer knew how to conduct himself in genteel company.

  The Holly Springs Inn & Tavern served as host to landowners and statesmen, politicians and thieves, aether robber barons and visiting noblemen alike. Fortunes were made and given away over plates of fried pickles and slow-roasted pork coated in berry sauce. Famed for its horseflesh, Washington county drew visitors from all over the world. Everyone dined at the Holly Springs when they came to buy, sell, and admire Kentucky stallions. From the wealthy princes of the kingdoms of Africa to the sultans of Persia, all were drawn by the lure of the world-renowned racing horses.

  And there sat Abe’s minder, a slovenly, unshaven drunk, failing miserably at teaching his pupil the fine art of espionage.

  Abe watched Kingfish stifle a belch so wet and malodorous it was just shy of puking. Abe attempted to hide his disgust. In the brief but valuable time he’d spent in Copperhead’s presence, the old spymaster had taught him much. Perhaps most important was the first and most valuable rule of tradecraft — always blend in. It was a lesson his own minder apparently never had learned. Abe wrinkled his nose as the fans blew a fresh dose of Kingfish’s reek his way.

  Kingfish looked up from his empty glass, catching Abe staring. ”What is it, boy? You watching me when you should be watching the target?”

  Abe winced. His eyes darted left and right. Had anyone heard that? “You really should be more careful, sir,” Abe said, low enough so that only Kingfish could hear. “The walls have—"

  Kingfish dismissed Abe’s concerns with a wave of his hand. “I know, I know. The walls have ears.” Kingfish looked at his empty glass with longing in his eyes. He looked back at Abe. “You just worry about doing as you’re told, Bookkeeper.”

  Abe swallowed hard. Using an agent’s moniker in a public setting was a complete breach of security. He wondered how the man slouching across from him had survived as long as he had.

  Abe tried to refocus on the task at hand, conducting a discreet study of a group of men in the back corner of the dining room.

  Ringed by stone-faced mercenaries, Silas Worthington sat at a table full of shriveled, hateful, powerful men. None were as wealthy as Worthington, but all were like-minded, Abe knew. He’d done his homework on them. The “congregants” of First Episcopal all met here each Sunday afternoon. After service, they discussed their fortunes, their politics, and the morning’s sermon. The term “congregants”, of course, Abe used loosely when describing them. That term indicated followers of the church, followers of the Healer. These were old, pale men with young, dark tastes. Their appetites ranged from prostitution to slavery to other things even more repugnant. They were about as far from the teachings of the Healer as one could get.

  They’d been surveilling Silas Worthington, the Pious Man in all the official files, off and on for weeks. They’d alternated between tailing his steam carriage, following him in disguise, and watching his fortress-like estate from the cover of the trees in the surrounding hills.

  Abe caught a snippet of conversation from Worthi
ngton’s table. He leaned in. It sounded as though things were getting interesting. Abe strained to hear, but they dared not sit too close, even in disguise. Abe had met the Pious Man once, several years ago in his past work — his past life — as an auditor with the Keystone Bridge Company. Abe was no longer that same man, but he couldn’t risk being recognized. He picked up a newspaper and opened it, covering his face.

  “I know they all think I’m a drunk,” Kingfish blurted, the outburst sudden and with far too much volume.

  “Sir!” Abe hissed. Inch by inch, Abe’s patience with his minder was slipping.

  Kingfish continued, paying no heed to his protégé. “Think I’m a drunken fool, do you? No longer any good to the department? I’ll have you know I’m a senior agent, boy! I take life, and I give it.” He snapped his fingers. ”Just. Like. That.”

  Abe gritted his teeth. “That’s enough,” he growled.

  People had begun to stare. If he didn’t do something soon, someone was going to hear. If Abe or his minder were captured south of the Mason Dixon, Washington would have no choice but to disavow them. The Healer only knew what the Confederacy would do to two DSI agents caught on southern soil.

  “Copperhead and I worked together,” Kingfish slurred. He seemed not to care who heard. He grinned, baring a mouthful of yellowed teeth. “He and I created the Indoctrination protocols.”

  The fact hit Abe like a hammer, catching him off guard.

  “That’s right,” Kingfish said, “me and your precious hero… we were equals. Once. Still are, in my book. What do you think of that, boy?”

  The thought of Copperhead twisted Abe’s stomach into knots, taking his mind off the revelation Kingfish had just dropped on him. Scarlet had told him about what happened with Vice Chairman McCormick, about the failed revolt. The image of Copperhead rotting away in some damnable secret prison was almost too much to bear.

  Scarlet had made him swear to stay out of it all until he was needed, and he’d reluctantly agreed. He’d agree to anything for Scarlet, so Abe compartmentalized his concern for Copperhead and did exactly what the old spymaster would have wanted him to — he focused on the mission.

  Kingfish belched again, only this time his luck ran dry. An elastic string of spittle and vomit oozed from his maw to dribble down his chin. He wiped his mouth with the back of his shirt cuff, nearly toppling from his chair in the process. Abe’s blood ran cold when Worthington and his party turned toward their table.

  Abe didn’t hesitate. He stood and walked behind Kingfish, pulling a tiny needle from his sleeve as he moved. “Are you all right, uncle?” Abe asked, loud enough for everyone around him to hear. He placed the needle between his fingers then leaned down and pricked his minder's neck. Kingfish went limp. Abe called for the serving girl.

  Abe explained that his “uncle” had a condition, narcolepsy, contracted while on expedition to far Egypt. The serving girl frowned, giving Abe a knowing look and a nod. She took her time assigning two clockwerks to assist him in getting his minder out a side door.

  Abe risked a glance in Worthington’s direction on the way out. The hired mercenaries had relaxed. The spectacle forgotten, the Pious Man and his party of ghouls had already returned to their Sunday supper.

  Abe watched the two clockwerks carry his minder out. He and the serving girl followed close behind. He breathed a sigh of relief when they cleared the building without further incident.

  “I’ll take it from here,” he told the serving girl. “Thank you.”

  “Good luck with your ‘uncle’.” She sneered before heading back into the tavern.

  Their work done, the pair of mechanical men followed her back inside. Pistons and gears popped and whirred as they moved, the sounds fading until Abe and his minder sat alone in the back alley. Kingfish leaned heavily onto Abe’s side. Abe dumped him in a pile of refuse until he could figure out what to do with him. The senior agent slumped over, snoring.

  “Christ the Healer,” Abe swore. He scooped Kingfish up and threw the man’s considerable bulk over his shoulder. Just then, Kingfish’s bladder let go. Abe pictured the acrid-smelling yellow fluid running down his coat as he felt the terrible, wet warmth soak into his clothes.

  “Bastard!” He wondered what the penalty was for agents who murdered their minders and buried them, in pieces, throughout their area of operations. Whatever the penalty was, it was probably worth it.

  Abe shifted his minder on his shoulder and started walking. The piss soaking his coat cooled rapidly. Worse than that, Kingfish had burned them. From here on out, any surveillance of the target would have to be done from a distance. His minder had made sure of that.

  16 New Orleans, Louisiana - Warehouse Row, October 1866

  “You sure about this, Julius?” Greg asked.

  Montclair nodded. “I left the signal the same way it’s always been done, and the response checked out.”

  Montclair hoped his voice conveyed more confidence than he felt. The methods of underworld communication dated back to when the Spanish ruled New Orleans, the secret signs and signals already a hundred years old, even before Montclair’s mother ran the city. Now, they were mostly forgotten. Rust had eaten away half of the only drop box Montclair remembered. When he’d opened it, cobwebs lined what remained of the inside.

  Greg shrugged. “And you’re still sure about bringing the Indian princess along?”

  “I’m sure,” Montclair said, despite the fact that he wasn’t. He’d loved introducing Ayita to the place of his birth, especially during Masquerade when the city showed off all its elegantly debauched glory, but the back gutters of New Orleans wouldn’t have been his first choice as a place for courting.

  “Wouldn’t a couple of my Marines have been better?” Greg asked. He looked at Ayita. “Meaning no offense to you, of course.”

  She took it in stride. “There was none taken, Colonel Gregory. Besides, I would wager I am as handy as any of your water-soldiers if it comes to a fight.”

  Montclair grinned at Greg. “She said it, not me.”

  Greg grunted. “They’re ‘Marines’, Princess. Not ‘water-soldiers’. There’s a difference.”

  “And I am no princess, Colonel Gregory. I am the daughter of a War Chieftain of the Croatan Nation. There is a difference.”

  Greg tipped his Stetson. “Point taken, chieftain’s daughter.”

  They’d left their lodgings on Rue Royale and hired a steam carriage to take them down St. Charles. They’d followed St. Charles southeast to Magazine Street then on down to Felicity, where Montclair instructed the driver to drop them at the corner of Felicity and Celeste. From there, they’d struck out on foot, Montclair leading the way. He had taken them through a bustling marketplace, a symphony of price haggling, shouted arguments and agreements, and vendors hawking their wares. They’d ducked around back of the market, slipping behind the stalls.

  Montclair turned down an alley, sending a small army of rats scampering. He took a right, and they found themselves on a narrow stone street, the length of it running between the backs of buildings and a row of warehouses.

  “These were some of the first warehouses built in the city,” Montclair said.

  The red brick was crumbling, marked with the scars of a hundred hurricanes. The structures were timeworn even by the standard of New Orleans, one of the oldest cities in the Union or the Confederacy.

  The stink of rotting sewage seeped from iron drains set deep in the cobblestones, mingling with the rich, muddy scent of the Mississippi. Row upon row of ancient warehouses lined the riverbank.

  A few cautious minutes and Montclair spotted the door he’d been searching for. A flood of memories came rushing back to him. “This is it,” he said, a catch in his throat.

  The warehouse door was beaten, weathered wood. Green paint, once bright and vibrant, was now chipped and peeling away in flakes. A tarnished brass knocker hung from the center. His mother’s people had shipped tons of smuggled goods through this very door. Now here he
stood, back in this place despite his disdain for the life his mother had planned for him. Despite the oath he’d sworn to himself never to return.

  Montclair looked at Ayita and Greg. Both drew pistols. A nod from Greg told Montclair his friend was ready. The set of Ayita’s jaw and the fire in her eyes told Montclair she was ready as well. Montclair pulled his Colt and cocked it. Every muscle tense as a drawn bowstring, heartbeat even and steady just like the hundreds of other times, both in training and combat, when he’d made entry. Kicking in doors was as second nature as breathing now. Montclair held the Colt tucked in close to his body, his finger straight and off the trigger. He grasped the knocker with his clockwerk hand and struck it against the door.

  There was the scrape of wood on wood, the complaining of hinges unused in the Healer knew how long, as the door creaked its way open. A beaten clockwerk stood in the entrance, a dull light, weak and swamp-gas blue, burning in only one of its two eyes. The clockwerk turned and waited a beat before it beckoned them to follow.

  Montclair glanced back at his companions, wariness in his eyes. He’d be first in, followed by Ayita, with Greg providing rear security. Their course set, he gripped his pistol tighter and stepped inside.

  Montclair swept in tight, pistol up, turning the corner as he checked behind the door. Nothing but a second clockwerk, unarmed and in even worse condition than the first. Montclair backed away as the mechanical man closed the door behind them and slid a thick wooden beam into a set of iron brackets across it. Montclair heard a familiar noise: old dried wood on iron — the scraping from earlier must have been the clockwerk unlocking the door.