Black Iron

by Franklin Veaux

  “What? How can you say that? She was right here! She was holding a knife!”

  Julianus nodded. “She was. But have you ever known the noble classes to do their own dirty work? And look.” He gestured to the woman’s throat, which had been slashed so deeply she had almost been decapitated. “Whoever did this was strong. The killer would have been covered in blood from head to foot. Alÿs wasn’t.”

  “I don’t care!” Max said, frustrated. “You saw her. She had a knife. The airship, and now here? Once is coincidence. Twice is conspiracy.”

  Julianus stroked his chin, still thoughtful. “Maybe,” he said. “But something’s wrong.” He went to the open window and looked out. His eyes fell on the small mound of dust and pebbles on the windowsill. He ran his fingers through them, then turned his head to look up.

  “See anything?” Max said.

  “No.”

  “What do we do about the Lady Alÿs?”

  “Put out the word,” Julianus said. “Have her detained if any of the Guard sees her. We need to talk to her. You said it yourself. Once is coincidence, twice is conspiracy.” He rose. “Someone is definitely covering their tracks. Still think this was a waste of time?”

  Max growled resentfully.

  “I’m glad you agree,” Julianus said. “Look around. There might be something here that points toward whoever ordered that kite. A journal, a ledger, anything. We’ll need to inform the civilian police and bring them in on this. They’re going to want to know there’s been a murder.”

  “I don’t see why we should have to talk to them,” Max said. “Let them find it on their own.”

  “Call it being good citizens, if you like,” Julianus said. “Or, if you prefer, think of it as keeping a hand in. If we bring them in on a case involving Her Majesty the Queen, then we have a legitimate claim to being informed of everything they learn. If it’s just a random murder, we can’t take an interest without making them curious.”

  Max considered this. “Huh. Good point,” he said grudgingly. “Maybe you’re useful for something after all.”

  13

  Alÿs ran for a long time, taking turns at random, fleeing headlong down roads and alleys she didn’t recognize. She didn’t stop even when she collided with people, ignoring the cries of “Hey!” and “Watch where you’re going!” that trailed behind her in an audible wake.

  Here, in this corner of Old New London, the streets were narrow and the buildings clustered close together, as if fearing to be too far from their neighbors. The roads tended toward bendy rather than straight, so that even experienced people who often did business in the quarter frequently found themselves lost. So exuberant had London’s expansion been once the Centenium Bridge had touched down that little thought had been paid to street numbering, zoning, or any of the other niceties of civic infrastructure that concerned more sober and serious-minded towns. The result was, it was generally agreed, a confusing mess.

  Alÿs kept going until her legs gave out beneath her. She crashed to the ground, startling a small knot of pigeons that had been searching the cobblestones for things shiny or edible. When she climbed back to her feet, she leaned against a wall, gulping huge breaths of air that felt like knives in her lungs. The image of the slain woman, the life fading from her eyes, lingered in front of her no matter where she looked. She squeezed her eyes shut. It didn’t go away.

  When she could breathe again, she set off once more. No matter how fast she ran, that image kept pace with her. So much blood…

  She carried on in her headlong flight, without thought or destination, ignoring the concerned looks on the faces around her. The crowds thinned, and the neighborhoods grew rougher. Red and gold touched the sky.

  Alÿs heard chanting, long and musical. She plunged on, pressing through a crowd of white-turbaned men gathering before a domed building with great arches of white limestone. The tight cluster of men exclaimed after her in surprise. She tripped and nearly fell, crashing into a muscular man with a long black beard. Concerned brown eyes looked back at her. “Miss? Miss? Are you alright?” he asked, but Alÿs had already regained her footing and was gone.

  Eventually, bit by bit, awareness crept back. A rumbling in her stomach made her aware that she had not eaten in a long time. Night was gathering the city beneath its wings. She looked around, seeing the streets and alleys for the first time since the shop, realizing she did not know where she was.

  The vision of blood and death faded with the last scraps of daylight. The gathering gloom cast long shadows in the nondescript alley before her.

  From somewhere far away, a clock bell tolled seven. The sky was hard and clear, unusual for the time of year. Stars were already appearing in the deep velvety sky.

  Alÿs turned around, trying to retrace her steps, but succeeded only in becoming more confused. In the darkness, she stumbled down a blind alley lined with refuse-dumps, and the full enormity of her situation fluttered in to descend on her like a suffocating weight.

  She could not go back. The Guardsmen had recognized her. They had been suspicious before. They would be certain now, absolutely convinced she was part of whatever was happening. They might even believe that she had killed the woman in the shop. If she tried to return to the Palace, she would surely be detained. There would be people looking for her, Guardsmen and the police and who knew who else. She faced arrest at the very least, and prosecution for murder or heresy or who knew what else at worst. She was alone, far from home, without allies. Her friends at Court, politics being what it was, had doubtless already started to turn against her.

  She slumped down with her back against the wall in the gloom of the narrow alley. The tears came quickly, great wracking sobs that shook her entire body.

  She buried her head in her knees and wept, her fists curled into tight balls. In hindsight, running was stupid—possibly the stupidest thing she’d done so far in her short life. In one second, she had confirmed the worst suspicions of those skeptically disposed against her and destroyed all hope of clearing her name. She pounded her hands against the road beneath her as she sobbed, hammering against the rough cobblestone until her palms were raw and bloody.

  If only she were as conniving as Eleanor had suggested. If she were a schemer, she could have collapsed in Julianus’s arms, begged him to save her, concocted a fantastic but plausible tale to explain her presence…that’s what Eleanor would have done. But she wasn’t. Her pride and bravado, useful in maintaining her social position as one of the youngest ladies in Queen Margaret’s Court, had dissolved. She didn’t feel like a courtier or a lady. She felt like a child, in trouble that was way over her head.

  Eventually, the sobs slowed. She panted, crouched still in the alleyway. She needed a plan, she thought. A roof over her head, food in her belly, and someplace to think. She would have to get away from the city. She had only the coins in her bag, which…

  Fear gripped her heart. The last remnant of purple-black light was fading. There were likely to be bandits and criminals about, and she had no way to defend herself. She would need—

  “D’you have a shilling, miss?”

  “Wh—what?” Alÿs looked up.

  “I said, d’you have a shilling?”

  Alÿs wiped the tears from her eyes. The girl swam into focus. She was dressed from head to foot in rags, save for a top-hat that was far too large for her, wrapped with a purple sash…

  Alÿs’s heart lurched. The despair that had held her moments ago began to slide off her. A flicker of hope, small and fragile, took root somewhere inside.

  “That’s a very nice hat you have,” she said, her focus sharpening.

  “It’s my hat!” The girl drew away defensively, like an alley cat ready to bolt. “You can’t have it!”

  “I’m not going to take your hat,” Alÿs said. “Here.” She drew a coin from her pouch. “I have a shilling for you. And I will giv
e you another half-shilling if you tell me about your hat.”

  The girl snatched it from her. “My da gave it to me before he died,” she said. “It was his hat.”

  “Did he?” Alÿs said. “That’s a very good story. I’ll tell you what. How about another half-shilling if you tell me the truth?”

  Missy regarded her for a long moment, sizing her up. Then she held out her hand. Alÿs passed her another coin. It vanished speedily, disappearing somewhere on Missy’s person.

  “I got it from an odd dog,” Missy said. “He gave it t’me. He did! He was being waked by a meerkat tammer. I think ’e meant t’fig ’im t’a nap for sure. They had a rumple spur. Right there.” She pointed down an alleyway. “The tammer came back and snapped it right off me nob!”

  Alÿs held her breath, hardly daring to move in case the little girl ran away, severing her only connection to Shoe Man. “What’s your name, little girl?”

  “Missy. Missy Ellington. An’ don’t call me little girl.”

  “Okay. Missy Ellington it is.” Alÿs lowered her voice. “Missy, I need to find the man who gave you that hat. Do you know where is he now?”

  “I tole you! He ran away.”

  “Did you see which way he went?”

  Missy looked at her shrewdly. “D’you have another shilling?”

  “Well, that depends,” Alÿs said. “How much do you know?”

  Missy looked her up and down, eyes narrowed. “How much will you give me t’take you t’him?”

  “How much do you want?”

  “What’s ’e worth t’you?”

  Alÿs sighed. “Honestly? I don’t know.”

  Missy snorted. “Don’t know? Is ’e yours?”

  “Mine?” Alÿs shook her head. “No, he is not mine.”

  “Oh.” Missy nodded. “D’you want to kill ’im? It’s more if y’want t’kill ’im.”

  “No! What? No, I don’t want to kill him! You’re a strange girl.”

  “I know,” Missy said. She thought for a moment. “Five,” she said finally, as if arriving at an answer to a particularly difficult school problem. “Right. Five shillings. I take you t’him.”

  “I’ve already given you two shillings! I’ll give you three more.”

  “Four more.” The girl held out her hand. “Four.”

  “Four,” Alÿs said. “But not until we’re there.”

  “An’ one extra if we have t’run the cake.”

  “Cake?” Alÿs looked puzzled.

  “The cake toppers,” Missy said. She rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Coppers!”

  “Oh! I told you,” Alÿs said, “I don’t want to kill him.”

  “Then it won’t matter t’you.” Missy folded her arms, her mouth set in a stubborn curl.

  “Fine,” Alÿs said, resigned. She had trouble shaking off the impression that she had just been out-negotiated by a child. “Four shillings plus one more if we have to run away from the police.”

  “Deal,” Missy said. “This way.”

  14

  The big orange cat crouched near the half-finished battle machine, tail twitching. Muscle rippled under its fur. Its eyes were focused on a spot of empty air about six inches in front of it. It growled, a long, low, menacing growl. Then it tightened its muscles and sprang, front legs outstretched, claws extended. It grabbed a handful of nothing and hit the ground rolling, tumbling to a halt several feet farther away. It stood as though nothing had happened, licked itself for a moment, then wandered away.

  “Why does your cat do that?” Thaddeus said.

  “Hmm? Oh.” Donnie glanced over at the cat, which was now rubbing its face on a drive wheel from a large two-legged industrial clanker that stood partly disassembled against the far wall. The machine looked just humanoid enough for Thaddeus to find it unsettling. “Dunno. Who can know a cat’s mind?”

  “What’s his name?” Thaddeus asked.

  “Dunno what ’e calls himself. We call ’im Disorder, on account of ’cos it’s what ’e spreads.” On cue, the cat leaped into the belly of the clanker. A pile of tools and small metal cogs slid to the stone floor with a crash.

  “What am I going to do, Donnie?” Thaddeus said.

  Donnie shrugged. The corded muscles in his shoulders and upper arms moved like serpents wrestling beneath his skin. “Dunno. ’Alf of knowin’ what to do is knowin’ what situation yer in. Dunno what situation yer in, Muddy. Jus’ that yer in it good. Wait for Elias to come back. We’ll know more then.”

  “When is he going to be back?”

  Another shrug. “When ’e finds somethin’ out.”

  “But I can’t go home!”

  “Nope,” Donnie agreed. “Not if you like livin’ anyways.”

  “What do I do?”

  “Dunno.” Donnie rose from his chair and patted Thaddeus on the back. “I ’ave work that needs doin’. You want to ’elp with the battle machine?”

  Thaddeus slumped in his chair.

  “Naw,” Donnie said, “thought not. Not the Mudstone way.”

  Thaddeus spent the next several hours thinking of the string of miserable failures that had led him to this point in his life. First had been the matter of his birth, of course. He had unwisely been born into poverty, rather than wealth and idle luxury as was more properly his due. That had been an astonishing lack of foresight on his part, he thought. From his perspective, the people who did live in wealth and luxury seemed to spend a lot of time mucking up and generally making a mess of things. Had he been given a shot at that role, he could hardly do a worse job.

  Compounding that error, he had foolishly chosen to be born to a Muslim woman married to a British man. That was a matter of some scandal, the result of which was her expulsion from her Highpole-born family. The newlywed couple ended up in Whitechapel, London’s district for those without anywhere else to go, which was, in Thaddeus’s expert opinion, hardly a place to raise a child, what with the muddy streets and the funny smells and all.

  He had spent the best part of his formative years attempting to rectify his poor judgment in birth circumstance. The way he saw it, those with wealth and power spent a great deal of their time making everyone else miserable. Attempting to deprive them of their wealth and power was, therefore, a selfless act of public good.

  Wealth and power, Thaddeus thought bitterly. Was that too much to ask? He heard people say things like “wealth follows work,” but that was clearly a load of tosh. The hardest-working people he knew usually struggled to make ends meet, whereas the truly wealthy, the highest of the social classes, were born to a station that wouldn’t know work if it hammered iron ingots into horseshoes right in front of them. Work was a sucker’s game. “Wealth follows work” was something rich people said to poor people to get them to work so that the rich wouldn’t have to.

  But the reality was that because he hadn’t had the foresight to be born to wealthy upper-class parents, that left few opportunities for advancement, save for finding the occasional odd item of value in someone else’s pocket and transferring it into his own. Unfortunately, most of the pockets he had access to held little in the way of valuables, and so he, Thaddeus Mudstone, was trapped in a life unreasonably beneath his proper place.

  For a brief moment, he had sincerely believed things might be turning around. A man in a pub had offered him more money than he normally saw in a year, just to attend a party. How could that go wrong? Then, on the airship, he’d taken the opportunity to pocket a shiny bauble that, by all rights, should be worth quite a lot of money—not riches, sure, but more than he had ever had before. So what if it was a comb? It was a gold and platinum comb in a jewel-studded gold case…

  …monogrammed with the Queen’s insignia, which guaranteed he would never be able to sell it. Just another of Life’s little jokes at the expense of Thaddeus Mudstone Ahmed Alexander Pinkerton. Who i
n their right mind made combs out of gold, anyway?

  Now, as if all that wasn’t bad enough, someone was trying to kill him. To Thaddeus, that just felt like piling on.

  He climbed the rickety wooden stairs to the loft, looking for a place as far as possible from the bustle of Work and Industry going on around him. Being surrounded by people trying to Better Themselves only made him that much more depressed. He sat despondent on the edge of the bed. The big orange cat followed him up the stairs. It hopped onto the bed next to him, climbed into his lap and pressed its head against his hand.

  “Go away,” Thaddeus said.

  The cat tilted its head, as if struggling to work out what he’d just said. Then, with great deliberation, it bit him on the thumb. Thaddeus yelped and cursed. Satisfied, the cat hopped off his lap and curled up on the floor.

  The sun dragged a brightly-colored cloak down over London’s restless, smoke-filled sky. The dinner whistle blew. The workshop cleared out with the same rapid efficiency it had at lunchtime. Elias, the new number two apprentice, was still conspicuous in his absence.

  The Bodgers sat down for dinner. Thaddeus joined them, looking around anxiously. “Where’s your apprentice? Shouldn’t he have been back by now? When will he be back?” he asked Claire.

  “Can’t say,” she said. “When he finds something interesting, I suppose.”

  “What if something happened to him?”

  “Muddy, you worry too much,” Claire said. “What’s the worst that can—”

  A rapping came at the door, hesitant at first, then with greater authority. Thaddeus jumped. Claire sighed. Donnie rose from the workbench-cum-dinner-table.

  He came back a minute later. “A girl an’ another girl with your hat want t’ see you,” he said.

  “What?” Thaddeus said. “My hat?”

  “An’ a girl an’ another girl,” Donnie said. “Focus.”

  Thaddeus rose reluctantly from his stew and went to the door. Sure enough, there was a girl there, dirty and disheveled, caked with mud, her face streaked with dirt and dried blood, her eyes puffy and red. She looked vaguely familiar, in an uncomfortable sort of way he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Standing expectantly next to her was another, younger girl dressed in rags. She was entirely too familiar.