“Don’t be dense, Mr. Fox. And don’t tell your sister, either. I’m waiting until her curiosity about my background is on the verge of killing her—and then I’ll negotiate a better royalty in exchange for each new crumb.” She appreciated the deep laugh that served as his response, the squint of his eyes as it shook through him. “Was seeing this woman your reason for sending Zenobia to London?”
His laugh faded. “Yes.”
“To the Iron Duke, no less. I thought you didn’t trust him?”
“I wouldn’t trust him to protect me. But who’s more capable of protecting her?”
Yasmeen could only think of a few names, but none who had incurred the same sort of debt to Archimedes that Rhys Trahaearn had. The Iron Duke had thrown him from his pirate ship, but Wolfram Gunther-Baptiste had boarded that ship in good faith and fulfilled the job asked of him. Trahaearn considered anyone who served his ship under his protection—which meant providing help when needed. When Archimedes asked for something of this nature, there was no question that the Iron Duke would do it.
But Archimedes probably didn’t understand that—most likely, he’d just rolled the dice.
“And if the Iron Duke is reluctant, who more likely to talk him into it than Scarsdale?”
He grinned. “Did he need to?”
“No. But you’re right. How could Scarsdale resist the author of the Archimedes Fox adventures? He and your sister have been inseparable since she arrived.” And because she couldn’t resist, either, “Perhaps Zenobia will soon be a countess.”
Archimedes’ grin fixed to his face, and he gave his head a hard shake, as if to clear it. “Eh?”
She flicked her cigarillo over the side of the ship. “She’s a practical woman. It’d be a good fit—and perfect timing. He’s searching for a wife. Duty calls, and he needs the heir and spare.”
He stared at her, as if trying to read the truth from her face. Yasmeen smiled, showing her teeth. An expression of relief slipped over his features, then worry, then relief again. Finally, he said, “I can’t decide if you’re serious. I think I ought to write her.”
“Perhaps you should,” Yasmeen agreed.
The wind picked up, chopping the harbor’s surface into rough waves, but making for a quick sail to the south docks. Mad Machen ordered the anchor dropped near the site where her lady had crashed into the water and returned to the main deck, where Big Thom ran a test of the dive suit’s air pump, checking the flow through the long, coiled tube. The hand-cranked device forced air to circulate through the waterproofed leather hose and into the diver’s brass helmet—which meant the diver relied on someone else simply to breathe.
Madness. Even the tiny enclosed space in Ivy’s submersible would be preferable, and Yasmeen wouldn’t take money to dive underwater in that.
No doubt Archimedes would do it for free. Yasmeen looked starboard, where a hoist suspended the submersible over Vesuvius’s side, copper skin gleaming in the dull sunlight. From inside the capsule, Archimedes’ exclamations of awe and questions to Ivy had echoed hollowly through the open hatch for the past twenty minutes, but his voice had smoothed out now, hints of flattery and teasing slipping through.
Trying to charm her into taking him down, no doubt. Good luck to him.
She made her way across the deck toward Mad Machen, who was holding the full-length canvas suit at arm’s length, a frown darkening his scarred face.
“How does a man get into this blasted thing?”
“There’s a double-flap fastening in the back,” Yasmeen said, but his question sparked a note of alarm in her head. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”
“I’ve dived before. This looks to be a hell of a lot easier. You don’t even have to hold your breath.”
Yasmeen looked to Big Thom, who rose from his crouch next to the air pump, shaking his head. The man lived up to his name, with broad shoulders made wider by the pneumatic braces across his back and chest. Combined with his steel prosthetic arms, the apparatus gave him tremendous hauling power—and during the Horde’s occupation in England, he’d hauled fish. He ran a salvaging boat now, though by the looks of it, he hadn’t been hauling up much treasure.
“No,” Big Thom said. “It’s not easier. When you told me you’d dived, I thought you understood that. But you’re not going down. Not in my suit.”
Big balls, too. Not many men would say “no” so baldly to Mad Machen’s face.
Quiet fell over the main deck. The crew wasn’t used to hearing that word said to him, either.
“She’s not going down alone. Not on this first run.”
“That’s your business,” Big Thom said, as if he didn’t see the pulse throbbing in Mad Machen’s temples and the tension whitening the pirate’s knuckles and lips. “Unless you’ve practiced swimming with the brass guards over that canvas, weighing you down, you aren’t any good to her anyway—and I’ll probably be hauling up your dead body.”
“Then I won’t use the guards.”
Ivy’s voice called from starboard, “And lose your other leg to a shark?”
Yasmeen glanced over her shoulder, where the blacksmith was climbing out of the submersible’s hatch, her eyebrows drawn and mouth tight. She leapt to the deck, followed by Archimedes.
“There’s more than that,” Big Thom added. “You’ve got to know to keep your hose from kinking. You’ve got to know how fast you can come up. Give me a few hours and I’ll find a diver who can go down with her. You can’t.”
“I can,” Archimedes said.
Yasmeen huffed out a laugh. Of course he could. And was idiot enough to offer.
Mad Machen’s wild gaze landed on her face. Ah, softhearted Eben. She’d have blamed love for this, but he’d already been a bit mad before he’d met Ivy.
She shrugged. “He made it through the Underwater Perils of Porto.”
The pirate looked to Archimedes. “You go down, then. If she doesn’t come back up, I’ll kill you.”
That wouldn’t do at all. Yasmeen said, “But before he kills you, make sure to hook that hoist chain to my strongbox.”
Archimedes grinned. “I’ll do that.”
He shrugged out of his coat, Mad Machen handed the canvas suit to her as he crossed the deck to meet Ivy—and that quickly, Yasmeen became an idiot’s valet. Facing her, only a foot away, Archimedes held her gaze while he shed his waistcoat.
“Will you fear for me, Captain?”
“No. You have a fool’s luck.”
“It does seem to be returning.” He sat back against a tackle chest and hauled off his boots. “Perhaps because you came back to me. My favorite mercenary.”
That nonsense didn’t even warrant a response. He stepped into the diving suit and she fastened the back, checking the edges for a watertight seal. The water would be cold. Wet and cold could be disastrous.
“I think Big Thom’s half in love with her,” Archimedes said. “I probably ought to warn him about Mad Machen.”
Yasmeen looked around his shoulder to where Mad Machen and Ivy stood with the salvager. The blacksmith was showing him the submersible’s air pump, which operated in the same way as the diving suit’s pump, but was cranked by a windup mechanism instead of by hand. Big Thom did appear stricken with longing, yet not by Ivy herself.
“It’s her arms, you idiot.” When the Horde grafted tools onto the laborers in the occupied territories, it cared about function, not appearance. The skeletal prosthetics beneath the salvager’s heavy coat sleeves and gloves probably looked more like thin steel bones than limbs. “He’s likely never seen mechanical flesh before.”
“And couldn’t afford it even if he had?”
“Yes.” The only person outside of Xanadu who could manipulate the nanoagents necessary to create mechanical flesh was the Blacksmith in London, but his work didn’t come cheap. And though Big Thom could buy a pair of arms on credit, few people risked owing a debt that large to the Blacksmith—especially if they couldn’t be certain of making every pa
yment. She gestured to the quartermaster, standing near the main mast. “Barker will be paying off his leg for a decade.”
Archimedes whistled softly. “That’s a heavy weight.”
“Not as heavy as ten thousand livre.”
“That only weighs as much as a stolen da Vinci sketch.” He smiled faintly when she snorted, his gaze on Ivy and Big Thom again. “What of the other sort? Your Pegg had a foot that looked like a foot, even if it was metal. One of your gunners had arms of the same type. I forgot his name.”
Yasmeen ignored the ache in her throat, the sudden tightness around her lungs. “Mr. Pessinger,” she supplied. “That was Ivy’s work, too.”
“Ah. Why am I not surprised? I thought they were mechanical flesh until Pegg let me have a closer look. But her prosthetic was an actual machine, not metal made flesh and shaped by the nanoagents. I’ve never seen such intricate gearwork and hydraulics before. Incredible.”
“Yes.”
She couldn’t keep the thickness out of her voice. Archimedes’ head swung round, his gaze sharpening. Avoiding his eyes, she handed him the first of the brass guards that buckled around his lower leg—he could put these on himself.
“Won’t you go down with us?” he asked softly.
“To see my lady broken and to pick at her shattered bones?” She’d do better stabbing herself through the heart. “No, thank you, Mr. Fox. I’ll leave the traipsing through ruins to you.”
His eyes searched her face for a long moment before he nodded and stooped to fasten the guards at his lower legs and thighs. She buckled more plates over his chest, back, and arms, until he resembled an invading crusader from the centuries before the Horde’s invasions.
She hefted the domed helmet over his head and fastened the bolts, then tapped the round glass plate over his face. “You ought to have had one of these in Venice! I couldn’t have lifted you to toss you over!”
His muffled laugh fogged the small window. She smiled in response, and his splayed, awkward walk across the boards continued to improve her mood. Big Thom verified the air flow in the domed helmet. The crew rolled back the net stretched across the gangway so that he wouldn’t have to climb over the side of the ship.
He dropped into the water a few minutes later, followed by the submersible. Mad Machen stood at Vesuvius’s starboard bulwark, his fingers clenched on the gunwale as the capsule sank beneath the surface. Yasmeen paced the decks and smoked the last of the cigarillos in her case.
Eleven hundred livre sat at the bottom of the harbor. That money was a skyrunner, swift and sleek. A full complement of arms and cannons. A seasoned crew, supplies. She’d buy mercenaries, information, loyalty. If necessary, she’d purchase a war and bring it to the doorstep of those who’d dared to hurt those under her protection.
They’d pay. Oh, how they’d pay.
A shout hailed from starboard. Heart pounding, Yasmeen ran to the side. The water alongside the ship seemed to boil, and the submersible suddenly emerged through the roiling surface—with Archimedes riding astride the large capsule. Hoots of laughter and lewd shouts joined the cheers of the crew, and this time Yasmeen was inclined to agree with them: The man did have enormous balls.
Mad Machen ordered his men to the hoist. Below, Ivy threw her hatch open and poked her head out. Her gaze locked with the pirate’s before she searched out Yasmeen’s.
Her grin almost split her pale cheeks. “We got it!”
They had it, but forever seemed to pass before she saw it. The submersible’s cable winch had to be wound by hand, and even after Big Thom replaced the straining crew, the going was slow. Brought in too fast on a rocking ship and swinging cable, the strongbox could smash like a cannonball against the hull.
Yasmeen distracted herself by helping Archimedes out of his suit, and shouted for coffee and a blanket when she saw the chattering of his teeth, discovered the icy cold of his hands. When she rubbed his fingers between her own, a man had never seemed so pleased with himself.
But, hell—she was pleased with him, too. She was pleased with the whole damn world.
The strongbox finally lifted out of the water, the casing dull but undamaged. Archimedes stood beside her, a wool blanket clutched over his shoulders, as Big Thom carefully brought the strongbox around over the side and lowered it to the deck. Yasmeen sank to her heels in front of it.
“Captain Corsair!” Ivy called her name before she could touch the casing. “That’s one of the Blacksmith’s, yes? A blind-dial combination?”
“Yes.” No doubt the girl had constructed a few when she’d worked in the Blacksmith’s shop. “Why?”
Ivy crouched beside her. “They’re strong, but sometimes the dial mechanisms are knocked out of alignment if they’re hit hard. That explosion shattered your legs. A force like that might have been enough.”
Enough to change the combination? “So what do you propose?”
“I’ll open it for you.”
Unease flittered through her. “You can open my strongbox.”
Could the gan tsetseg?
The blacksmith wiggled her gray fingers. “I can touch your skin and feel your nanoagents moving. Sensing the tumblers falling into place . . .” She trailed off, as if unable to think of a comparison to anything as easy. “It’ll be safer for you.”
And Yasmeen preferred not to spend her first coins on a prosthetic hand. She gestured for Ivy to proceed. The girl did so quickly, and if Yasmeen jumped a little when the steel panel snapped closed on Ivy’s wrist, she wasn’t alone. But the mechanical flesh was unharmed, and a moment later, Ivy smiled and sat back. The top unscrewed and the belly opened.
An empty belly. No sacks of gold coins. No leather portfolio.
“Oh!” Ivy said. Her brow furrowed. “But I thought—I . . . Oh.”
“Yasmeen,” Archimedes said quietly.
Her hands shook. She reached for a cigarillo, then remembered she didn’t have any more. Her stomach formed a sick, aching knot.
I have nothing.
Not even a way to avenge her crew. Panic began to build, shortening her breath. She fought it back, fought the terror.
This was what a heart of steel was for—and she’d crawled out of nothing before.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Fox. I don’t seem to have your forgery, after all.” She rose to her feet, ignoring him when he repeated her name. “Thank you, Ivy, for all of your help. Mr. Barker? I believe I owe you a drink. I’d like to pay up now.”
While she still could.
Chapter Five
Of all the rough taverns near the docks, the Charging Bull was arguably the worst of the lot. Archimedes didn’t expect to find Yasmeen there, but after a tour through half of Port Fallow’s rum dives, he realized that was exactly where to find her. There was no counting the number of tales he’d heard about Captain Corsair in a tavern brawl, tearing through the other patrons like paper. Not so many stories lately, but the captain had been gutted by that empty strongbox. If she was looking to take out that pain on someone, there was no better place to look than the Charging Bull.
Approaching the entrance, he thought the brawl had already started. A crowd shouted encouragement inside—chanting Henri! Henri! Henri! above the noise of the musicians. A glass shattered against the floor as he walked in, followed by the crash of a chair and two swearing sailors. The scent of stale sweat and tobacco filled the air. Every table was occupied, all looking to the middle of the room, where a boy of about fourteen lay on a table with his trousers around his ankles. A woman straddled his narrow hips, her bodice down and skirt up. A crowd of aviators chanted in time with the whore’s bouncing breasts. Someone had paid to make the boy a man, apparently.
Automaton musicians dressed in French navy uniforms played a jolly tune on the harpsichord and violin. No live musician would play here; too many had been knifed through the ribs for an off-key tune or in simple drunken bad temper. Archimedes found Yasmeen sitting at a table in the back corner, watching the boy’s deflowering with a mildly amused
expression. Her seat was situated in the only relatively quiet part of the tavern, given that those around her sat askew to their tables, hunched over their drinks as if they didn’t dare turn their backs on her but also weren’t going to risk looking her in the eyes.
A half-finished pint waited in front of her, a smaller glass empty beside it. Her brows lifted when she saw him, and she pushed out a chair with the toe of her boot. An invitation. More than he’d hoped for, but as she didn’t immediately speak, Archimedes wouldn’t assume that conversation was included with it. He ordered a round for them both when the barmaid appeared, sweating from the heat of the room.
From the center of the tavern came a chorus of cheers. Only the boy’s feet were visible, his toes spreading wide, ankles stiff, and legs jerking as he orgasmed. Yasmeen picked up her pint, raised it with the rest of the room. Her gaze met his.
“To young love,” she said.
Archimedes grinned. “May it always be so innocent.”
“And as lucrative for at least one partner.” She downed the pint in a few swallows. The table shivered as she slammed the glass back down. “What brings you to the Bull, Mr. Fox? Looking for sport on a table?”
“Looking for you.”
Her knuckles rapped the tabletop. “Then climb on up.”
Another invitation? And one that he could imagine, all too easily: wood at his back, and Yasmeen riding him. His hands filled with her soft breasts. Her claws digging into his shoulders. Wet heat surrounding his prick, taking him deep. Archimedes shifted in his seat, his body hardening. Not tonight. By God, he wanted to—but he’d wait until he needed to.
Yasmeen leaned forward, looking intently into his face. He could have distilled a potent liqueur from her breath. Too drunk for any sport, though he wouldn’t have known just watching her, listening to her. The woman could hold her drink.
He wasn’t a bit surprised by that fact.
“I believe I’ve done the impossible and rendered you speechless.” She sat back. “I don’t like it. I never thought to choose between your iron balls and your silver tongue.”
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