by Chris Paton
“Some were weak,” Hari nodded. Sliding his wet sandals to the left, he circled around Blaidd. “Some were not.” Hari dropped to one knee and curled the back of the kukri behind Blaidd’s knee, flipping the Welshman off balance and onto his back.
Hari leaped forward, the point of the kukri sighted upon Blaidd’s chest. Blaidd tucked his fists to his chest. Thumbs pressed against the wet fabric of his coat, the blades pointing upward, he straightened both arms and skewered Hari through both shoulders. Hari fell to his knees. The bent blade of the kukri clattered on the road.
Blaidd rolled onto his side and pushed himself to his feet. He bent down to pick up the kukri.
“This is nice.” Blaidd held the kukri in his right hand, twisting it back and forth in the dim light from the streetlamps. “Where did you say you got it?”
“I didn’t,” Hari grimaced. Grasping the handle of the knife sticking out of his right shoulder, Hari tugged it free. He leaned back on his ankles and grunted.
“Hurts, eh?” Blaidd twirled the kukri in his right hand. He pointed the tip of the kukri at Hari’s left shoulder. “You want to take that one out? I can wait.”
Hari cocked his head to one side and stared at Blaidd. “Are you playing with me?”
“Me?” Blaidd laughed. “Nah, I don’t play around.”
“Truly?” Hari winced as he gripped the handle of the butterfly knife in his right hand.
“That’s your bad hand, isn’t it?” Blaidd slapped the kukri flat against his thigh.
“Yes,” Hari took a breath.
“Best to just get it over with.” Blaidd wiped a trickle of rain from his nose. “Quick like.”
“You are most helpful,” Hari gritted his teeth. Blood from both wounds seeped into Hari’s maroon shirt as he pulled the second butterfly knife out of his left shoulder. Hari opened his palm and stared at the knife, at the rain washing the blood from the blade.
“Ready for more, eh?” Blaidd circled Hari. Drawing level with Hari’s face, he stopped and assumed a fighting stance.
Hari scanned the dark skies above for signs of Shahin.
“The bird’s gone,” Blaidd spat onto the road.
“She has a habit of doing that. Most unreliable.”
“So, it’s just you and me now.”
“Yes.” Hari picked up the second knife from the road. Rocking back onto the soles of his feet, Hari straightened. Squaring off in front of Blaidd, he stared the Welshman in the eyes. “That is my knife.”
“That’s right,” Blaidd flashed Hari a grin.
“I intend to take it back.”
“Of course you do.” Blaidd shifted his grip on the kukri and lunged forward.
҉
“You want me to lose?” Romney rocked forward on the sofa and swung her legs over the side. She planted her grease-stained boots on the wooden floor. “Lose?” She stood up. “I don’t understand. Why did you bring all these new steamracers? What about Wallendorf’s research and development?” Romney stood up and strode to the rail around the top of the stairs. Gripping the rail she turned around and pointed at Bremen. Her finger shook. “Does my father know?”
“Are you finished?” Bremen inclined his head toward Romney. Gesturing at the sofa with his right hand he reached for his cane and stood up. “Sit down, Fräulein, and I will explain.”
“Romney?” Robshaw beckoned from the sofa. “Let’s hear what he has to say.”
Romney waved her finger at Robshaw. “Of course,” she nodded, almost smiled, “you get a racer too. That’s what he said.” Romney leaned back against the rail and laughed. “Yes, let’s hear what he has to say. I am sure you will find it very interesting. If I’m not allowed to win, that can only mean that you will.”
“Romney.” The percussive thud of Bremen’s cane echoed about the eaves in the roof above them. Bremen smiled. “Forgive me,” he held up the cane. “This is another product of Wallendorf’s research and development. It looks so ordinary; I forget it packs a little punch when I press this button in the pommel. Luckily,” he lowered the cane, “that was the lowest setting. Won’t you sit down, Fräulein Wallendorf?”
“I prefer to stand.”
“As you wish.” Bremen crossed to the railing and stood a cane’s length from Romney. “Look at all that activity,” Bremen pointed at the men crowding the steamracers on the mill floor below them. “All that is for you.”
“What good is it if you won’t let me win?” Romney gripped the rail.
“Romney,” Bremen smiled, “there are many ways to win.”
“In a race? There is only one winner.”
“In your typical race, yes. To race around a track is one thing, but what if the race was bigger than that?”
“An endurance race?” Robshaw’s boots clumped across the floor as he joined them at the rail. “I have read about them.”
“Endurance? I like that.” Bremen turned to lean against the railing. “Mr. Robshaw, let me tell you about another of my interests. You see, I am not purely interested in steamracing. All this,” Bremen nodded at the activity below them, “is but one part of the larger race, the endurance. I am also very much involved in investigation, the discovery of useful things and pieces of information. For example, Bremen leaned forward and pricked Robshaw on the chest with his finger. “Your family’s wealth, your inheritance,” he smiled. “Your father was a shrewd investor. It seems that to protect your estate, he cast the net very wide when searching for the best returns on your family’s investments. It surprises me that you did not recognise the spices from Chile, especially when your father owns the farm and the processing factory.”
“What?”
“A surprise? Perhaps. But what is even more interesting is that the great hero of British steamracing is hardly a patriot. The playboy racer and his family have never once put their money into a single British enterprise.”
“How do you know all this?” Robshaw shook his head. “I don’t even know this.”
“That is because you are not interested. But you should be. Information like this could be important, it could influence popular opinion. What would happen, do you think, if your fans discovered that your father has turned a deaf ear on the pleas of over twenty British companies seeking financial help? Factories have closed and the poorhouses have swelled beyond capacity as a direct result of your family’s priorities.”
“I don’t see how...”
“How it can be true, or how it can affect you, Mr. Robshaw? I can tell you what will happen, if the truth were to be revealed. Your popularity would diminish and you would lose your precious status as a celebrity, a status I believe you cherish.”
Romney curled her hand around Robshaw’s arm. “Is this true?”
“What are you really saying, Herr Bremen?” Robshaw tugged his arm free of Romney’s fingers. “What do you want?”
“Ah,” Bremen nodded. “What do I want? I see you have made the connection. What I want in return for sitting on this information. Is that what you mean?”
“I don’t believe you are telling me these things without having an ulterior motive.”
“Naturally, everything has its price.” Bremen turned to Romney. “I am expecting delivery of something; a rather special machine. I need to get it out of London.”
“I don’t understand. What is the problem?” Romney glanced at Robshaw.
“The problem is the bigger race – the endurance as Mr. Robshaw put it. Fräulein Wallendorf,” Bremen rested both hands on the pommel of his cane. “Your father and I are very interested in endurance, in enduring through time. Like our mutual friend,” Bremen made a quick dip of his head toward Robshaw. “Your family, Romney, is investing heavily in a range of initiatives. However, unlike our friend, your father is investing in German interests only. It is our wish, together with the wish of our government, that the Confederation increases its influence in the world to become stronger, better, to win the ultimate race. And that,” Bremen pointed at Romney, “is where you
come in.”
“You want me to lose so that my father and you can win?”
“I want you to lose, Romney, so that the German Confederation can win.”
“And how will they do that?” Robshaw snorted.
“By getting my machine out of London, Mr. Robshaw.” Bremen tapped his cane on the floor. “The steamracers have a globus tank for a reason. It is built for longer distances. Built for endurance. Outside of the city, there is a dirigible waiting to receive you and my machine,” Bremen pointed at Romney. “While Mr. Robshaw is stunning the crowds with his driving skills, you will experience engine problems and fall back in the race.”
“There’s no challenge in quitting,” Romney crossed her arms over her chest.
“The real challenge, the one that will test you beyond the challenge of a single race, will be evading the British.” Bremen leaned his cane against the railing. Gripping the rail he leaned out and stared at his men going about their tasks. He paused as the single door set in the larger doors of the mill opened and two men stepped inside. Bremen’s assistant walked between the ranks of the mechanics and received an object from the men at the door. “I need a talented driver, Fräulein Wallendorf, one who isn’t afraid to push the limits.” He turned to look at Romney. “Getting that,” Bremen pointed at the device in Hannah von Ense’s hands, “past the British and out of London, will require more skill than winning some Derby, I can guarantee you of that.”
“And if I don’t want to?”
Bremen gripped the pommel of his cane. His lips curled. “I can’t imagine what it would do to your father if the Confederation were to discover that his own daughter was a traitor to her country.” Bremen stared at Romney. “Can you?”
Turning his back, Bremen waved at Hannah as she raised the object in her hands and grinned.
҉
Hari’s chest jerked with slow ragged heaves, as if each breath had to climb three or four steps before filling his lungs. Head down, his long black hair plastered to his cheeks, Hari pressed his palms upon the wet cobbles and watched the blood drop from his nose onto the surface of the road. He moved his left hand to his side and reached for the length of turban unravelled like a long, bloody towel, a discarded trophy pulled from his head. Hari clawed his fingers around the end of the stained fabric and inched it closer to him.
“That’s a nasty cut, eh?” Blaidd stepped in front of Hari and tapped him on the shoulder with the flat of the kukri’s blade. “I swear, I didn’t think I was going to enjoy this sword of yours,” Blaidd chuckled. “Too heavy for my tastes. But, I have to say, it’s growing on me.”
“It’s not a sword,” Hari spat blood from his mouth.
“What’s that?” Blaidd crouched down in front of Hari. He held the kukri beneath Hari’s nose. The mystic’s blood splintered on the edge of the blade, dribbling down both sides. Hari lifted his head and stared at the taunt plastered across Blaidd’s face.
“You hurt Miss Luise.”
“The young woman from the laboratory?” Blaidd nodded. “I did more than hurt her, eh? She’ll need help to sort out that dart in her side.”
“Truly,” Hari dipped his head.
“Pity you can’t help her.” Blaidd slid the kukri beneath Hari’s chin and forced his head up. “Eh?” Blaidd removed the kukri and let Hari’s head drop. Standing up, he paced a tight circle around his opponent. “I thought you were tough. I am disappointed.”
“As am I.” Hari let go of his turban and pushed himself onto his heels. He followed Blaidd’s pacing with tired eyes.
“Of course...” Blaidd stopped. He relaxed his arm and the kukri slipped to his side. Hari turned his neck to stare in the direction Blaidd was looking.
In the darkness beneath the eaves of the warehouses crowding the road, shadows of men flitted around empty packing crates. They formed a line and stepped out into the dim light cast by the whale oil streetlamps.
“Hello,” Blaidd paused. “Friends of yours, eh?”
“I do not know them,” Hari frowned.
“They seem rather intent.” Blaidd squinted at the line of men as they drew clubs, knives and small snublock pistols, and walked toward the centre of the road.
Blood and rainwater trickled between Hari’s lips and into his mouth as he began to smile. “Truly,” he laughed, “fortune has the strangest way of smiling upon me.”
“Fortune?” Blaidd took a step backward, putting Hari between him and the approaching line of men. “I’m not shy at admitting I am good, but one against,” Blaidd counted the men aloud, “nine heavily armed men.” He caught Hari’s eye. “Good but not stupid. Here’s your sword, Singh.” Blaidd laid the kukri in front of Hari. He stopped to pick up his butterfly knife. “It’s a nice blade to be sure, but,” he flicked his knife closed and slipped it into his coat pocket, “I prefer something a little lighter. Good luck to you.” Blaidd tapped the tips of two hairy fingers to his wet forehead.
“We’ll meet again?” Hari looked up at Blaidd as the Welshman retreated.
“More than likely. Still have a score to settle, eh?”
“Truly,” Hari bowed his head and placed his hands together in a wobbly Namaste.
Blaidd turned and fled across the road to the side of a warehouse. Gripping the copper drainpipe, he shinnied up the pipe to the pop of the small calibre snublocks. Hari watched his progress until his view was blocked by a thick pair of legs clothed in plaid trousers.
“Mr. Singh,” Sullivan crouched down by the side of Mason. He pulled the kukri out of Hari’s reach. “Lady Harte sends her compliments.”
“She does?” Hari looked up. “She has not forgotten me then?”
“Oh, no, mate. Quite the opposite.”
“And what is to be my fate?”
Sullivan laughed. “I can’t imagine it will be worse than your present predicament. But then, there’s no accountin’ for what Lady Harte decides from one minute to the next. Right unpredictable she is.”
“Truly,” Hari nodded.
“’Ere, Sully.” Mason tapped Sullivan on the shoulder. “Do you recognise that steam carriage?”
“Can’t say that I do.” Sullivan stood up, watching the carriage as it steamed toward them. “Hell’s teeth,” Sullivan spat on the ground. “Do you see the big fella ridin’ shotgun?”
Mason wiped rain from his eyes as Sullivan’s men formed a ring around Hari. “The old one?”
“Yes,” Sullivan smiled. “That’ll be old Egmont, the Admiral.”
“It never is.” Mason opened his jacket and slipped the baton inside.
“It’s been a long time since we was under the command of the Admiral, eh, Mason?”
“Aye, a long time.”
The clatter of the carriage’s brass-rimmed wooden wheels slowed as it drew level with Lady Harte’s Tartan Lads.
“Steady lads,” Sullivan cautioned as Egmont pushed himself up from the passenger seat next to the driver.
“We don’t want any trouble,” Egmont raised his hands, his thick fingers stretched wide. “But Jenkins here,” Egmont pointed at the driver, “has you covered.” Jenkins rested the barrel of the Polyphase rifle on the flat steering wheel.
“Admiral,” Sullivan removed his hat. “What brings you to Lady Harte’s Isle of Dogs?”
“Lady Harte’s...” Egmont laughed. “My, she has gone up in the world. Is that you Sully?”
“Yes, Admiral,” Sullivan nodded. “Mason is with me too,” he punched Mason on the arm. “What can we do for you, Admiral?”
“Well,” Egmont climbed down from the passenger side of the carriage and approached Sullivan and his men. “I dare say I need your help, lads.” Egmont nodded at Hari. “And I thank you for helping my friend here.”
“He’s with you, Admiral?” Sullivan pointed at Hari.
“He is.”
“And what kind of help do you need?”
“Admiral Egmont,” Hari pushed himself to his feet. “Is Miss Luise all right.”
“She�
�s hanging on, Hari. But...” Egmont shrugged. “We’ll need to act fast.”
“Inside the mill,” Hari pointed to the large building at the end of the road. “Miss Luise’s device is inside.” He paused. “We may have to fight to get it.”
“I expect we will.” Egmont turned to Sullivan. “How many men and how fast?”
“I can have another handful of men here in about five minutes, Admiral.” Sullivan straightened and gave Egmont a salute.
“Still sharp eh, Sully?”
“Yes, Admiral, although,” Sullivan let his arm fall to his side, “I answer to a new boss now.”
“Times change, Sully.” Egmont stepped forward and shook Sullivan’s hand. “But time is also running out. We have to get inside that mill,” he pointed over Sullivan’s shoulder.
“We’ll get inside.” Sullivan turned as someone pulled the kukri from his grasp. Turning around, he watched as Hari wrapped his turban around his waist, and strode up the road toward the mill, the kukri sheathed at his side.
“Determined, isn’t he?” Egmont shifted his weight upon his brass leg.
“Determined he might be, but he doesn’t look too healthy.”
“I’ve said it before,” Mason whistled, “but he’s an odd little fellow.”
“And there’s that damn bird of his.” Sullivan pointed as a dark shape swooped down from the rooftops and glided toward Hari.
Holding his left arm straight, Hari continued walking toward the mill as the hawk settled upon his wrist with a soft shriek. Lights flickered in the windows of the mill as the lookouts spotted him.
“Come, Shahin.” Hari wiped the rain from his eyes and spit the blood from his mouth. “The night is just beginning.”
Chapter 9
The Isle of Dogs
London, England
May, 1851
The double loading doors of the mill rattled in the rising wind. The rain pooled on the surface of the road and seeped beneath the flecked wooden sill. Hannah von Ense rested the stolen machine against her body, supporting the base in the palm of one hand. She smiled at Bremen as he approached. Hannah opened the hinged access panel to expose the myriad of interlacing cogs of ever decreasing sizes inside.