by Jasmine Walt
"What's this all about, then?" A thick English voice, the breath foul with beer, barked in his ear.
"Mrs. Milbanke, is this the one?" another voice called. Jacques was pulled away from the wall and swung around to face a sour-looking woman who was trying to smooth her skirts.
"That's him," she sniffed. "Running through the crowd, shoving people aside with no regard for propriety. He travelled in the same carriage from Liverpool as I. That's how I recognised him. French, isn't he? I might've known."
"You a Froggie, then?" The guard shook him. "You a Metic, snuck in here to hurl abuse at the Presbyter? Or are you an illegal? You know what we do to the likes of them?"
Jacques said nothing.
"I expect you'll take him to gaol immediately," said Mrs. Milbanke. "It would not be wise to have such an unsavoury figure roaming the Ward at night."
"Quite right, M'lady." The officer tightened his grip. Jacques shut his eyes as he felt the rapier blade pressed against his neck. "He's a tight-lipped one, in’t he? We might loosen him up—"
"What seems to be the matter here?" a voice boomed. Jacques opened one eye and saw, to his relief, the broad figure of Robert Stephenson looming over the arresting party.
"N-n-n-nothing that need concern you, Messiah," the guard answered. "This man has been causing trouble, running through the crowd, knocking the ladies about. Poor Mrs. Milbanke here was practically knocked over—"
"And as regrettable as that is, I hardly think it worthy of a night in gaol. After all, Mr. du Blanc has apologised, has he not?"
"No," the woman sniffed, "he has not."
"Then allow me to do so, on his behalf." Stephenson reached into his wallet and withdrew a small bag. Handing it to the lady, he said softly, "This will go some way to replacing that fine dress, ma'am, with our sincerest apologies. Jacques truly means no disrespect, he is on a mission of the utmost importance."
Annabella Milbanke grabbed the purse and stormed away into the crowd, Ada following close behind. The guards let Jacques go, and Stephenson gave him his arm while he regained his balance.
"He ran through one of these doors," Jacques said. "I've no hope of catching him now."
"Don’t be silly," said Stephenson. "You have every hope of catching him. You are in the house of his new master, yes?"
Jacques nodded, staring up at the wiry figure of Brunel, suspended in the pulpit high above a rapt congregation. On the altar, a live Boiler unit rotated slowly, steam hissing as it bent pipe after pipe to form the crest of His Majesty King George III. Something in Brunel’s expression unnerved Jacques – the way he lifted his chin, the way he spoke of the machine as though it were a beloved son. The way he loomed over his audience, his eyes meeting every gaze as he continued with perfect clarity, perfect calm.
"Maybe you need to speak to him, master to master, about your wayward slave."
When the sermon was finished and Isambard descended the metal steps from his pulpit, a wave of people surged forward to meet him. The question on everyone's lips was "are the Boilers for sale?" Every one of the rich lords and ladies wanted one, or three, or ten, to run their factory or tidy their home or show up their neighbours. Jacques listened to the praise echoing around him, as Stephenson scowled into his drink.
"I don't like it," Stephenson said, gesturing toward the Boiler with his elbow. "It isn't natural."
Isambard made his rounds of the room, and stopped before Stephenson. He smiled, but his eyes were like coal. "Messiah," he said, giving a shallow bow.
"Presbyter."
"I hope my sermon was to your liking."
Stephenson pointed to the Boiler, which was now demonstrating how it could tie a lady's corset. "That," he said, "is debatable. But at least you're no longer dabbling in locomotives."
Brunel's face was impassive, but his eyes remained hard. "If you remember, sir, it is my engine that will run the first commuter service in London—"
"Yes, yes," Stephenson interrupted. "If you'd be so kind, my friend Jacques has come a long way, and is most desirous to speak with you."
Brunel turned to him. "With all due respect, sir, many people in this room wish to speak to me, and I cannot possibly acquiesce to every reques—-"
"It is about your architect, Mr. Nicholas Thorne."
That got a reaction out of him. He leaned in toward Jacques, so close their noses were practically touching. His eyes were unreadable, his face like stone. In a low voice he said. "He is not here. I saw him leave this building some hours ago, escorted by Mr. Buckland."
"It is you I wish to speak to, Presbyter. Might we have a few words alone? It is of a most delicate matter."
Brunel threw a furious glance at Stephenson, who pretended he hadn't seen it. "Very well then," the Presbyter said through gritted teeth. He placed his arm on Jacques' shoulder and pushed him toward another side-chamber. He lifted a lantern from the wall, slipped into a room, and gestured for Jacques to sit. The Frenchman settled himself into a chair, staring suspiciously at the long table stretching across the centre of the room – three deep grooves cut into its metal surface – and the strange symbols engraved upon the walls. Isambard closed the heavy door and slid the bolt across.
"This is the baptismal," Brunel said. "Worshippers of Great Conductor are brought here to be consecrated in coal and steam. Your Stephenson has a much grander chamber in his cathedral, but I suspect after this evening, it will be emptier than ever. Now," he said, pulling out his own chair, and leaning in closely, "what is it you know about Nicholas? You are the first man in many months to speak his real name."
"He was in my employ, back in France. He owed a debt to me, but he did not finish paying it. I am an important man, Presbyter Brunel, and I have friends in many influential positions. I do not look kindly upon men who cheat me. I have come to take back what is mine."
"Thorne is mine. He'll not work for another – he is valuable to me. I shall pay you what you're owed, and that will settle the matter."
"I do not want money. I want Thorne."
"And I say you will not have him." The lamplight flickered across Brunel's cold eyes.
"He ran from your sermon tonight," said Jacques. "He is a coward – always running from his duty, from his punishment. Death follows him wherever he goes. He murdered my wife, did he tell you that? The French authorities look unkindly upon men who brutalise women and then escape across the border to England. Even your English courts will not spare such a man. And think what such a scandal would do to your newfound reputation—"
"Why are you here?" Brunel's eyes narrowed. "If you're as important and influential as you say, why not simply send French soldiers, or your own private ships, to exact the justice you seek?"
Jacques laughed. "I am a philosopher, not a mad-man. My sect is unpopular in France. If I were to send a ship to Industrian England, I would be assumed a traitor and dealt with in the usual way. But I am one man, Presbyter Brunel, and one man can go where an army cannot. I must again command you to deliver to me Nicholas Thorne."
"And I again state that you will not have him. We are done here." Brunel pushed his chair back, but Jacques reached over and clasped his wrist.
"You still protect him, after he has left you in your greatest hour? He has not even told you the nature of his crime, for if he had, you would not hesitate to hand him over."
"I trust him," said Brunel. "If Nicholas committed any crime, he would have reason, and I would not betray him, even if I knew where to find him, which I do not."
"Then you are unwise, Presbyter. Nicholas Thorne is not to be trusted."
"You dare to come in here, a follower of Stephenson, and make demands of me?"
"I follow no man," Jacques said. "And certainly not an Englishman. I am here, at great personal peril, to look after my own interests, and to avenge the death of my wife, whom Nicholas Thorne stabbed right through the heart as she stood before me. I have not yet gone to the authorities on this matter, Mr. Brunel, but I could. And when I do, the brutal n
ature of Mr. Thorne's crime will be made public. The press – not to mention your fellow priests and Councillors – will use the story to crucify you." He gazed up at the low ceiling of the chamber, sweeping his arm in a circle to encapsulate the whole of the Chimney. "You have to ask yourself if you're willing to risk everything you've created here for the sake of a man who has walked from your church without apology, for a man who has kept secrets from you and fed you lies and falsehoods, for a cold-blooded murderer?"
He watched Brunel's face for a sign, the twitch of a muscle, the flicker of emotion that might tell him if he'd achieved his goal. The Presbyter stared into the flames of the lamp, and his face never changed. He remained silent so long Jacques became uneasy, wondering if he'd drifted into some sort of trance.
Finally, in a low voice, so quiet Jacques had to lean forward to hear him, Brunel said, "What do you want me to do?"
Buckland ran ahead, the faint light of his lamp bobbing down the winding staircase. Brigitte followed, her arm sore from where he pinched it between his enormous hands, her slippered feet sliding across the slick stone as she tried desperately to keep her balance.
"Nicholas! What on earth is the matter? Why are we running? Is it Isambard? Is it—"
"Ah hah," cried Buckland in delight. "Here it is! I was worried I wouldn't find it – I've never come this way before."
They crowded onto a landing, facing the stone wall. Buckland held his light up and examined the stones. Nicholas squeezed Brigitte’s hand. She opened her mouth to ask again what was going on, but Buckland gave a cry of triumph and leaned his weight against a particular stone. With a groan, he pressed his whole body into the wall, and to Brigitte's great surprise a whole section of it slid inward, revealing a low, dark passage.
"After you." Buckland gestured to Nicholas.
"Thank you, friend." Nicholas clasped the man's shoulders. "Please take Brigitte and find her a room in the city. He won't come after her – it's me he wants, but she should not go back to my lodgings—"
"Excuse me," she cut in, her patience finally run dry. "But I have been dragged from a sermon I was quite enjoying, sent running after you two all night, stained my dress and ruined these slippers, and now you're sending me from your presence with not a word of explanation. I demand to know what's going on, "
"Brigitte, please—"
She folded her arms and leaned back against the stone wall. "I'll not move from this spot ‘till you tell me why we've left the Chimney to crawl around in dark tunnels in the middle of the night—"
"Someone's trying to kill me," Nicholas said, his face slick with sweat. "And I'll be damned to the Great Conductor's fiery furnace before I let him get you, too."
"Nicholas—" she reached out, wanting to comfort him.
"Keep away from me!" He slunk back, hiding in the shadows. "You must go with Buckland. Please, Brigitte."
Tears brimmed in her eyes. She shot out her elbow and knocked Buckland's arm aside, ducking into the dark passage next to him. "I'm not leaving you," she said.
"Don't be absurd, Brigitte. You are safer if you return to the city, pretend you don't know me—"
She shook her head. "I'll pretend nothing of the sort. I gave up my livelihood for you. Don't think for one moment I'm leaving."
"You don't understand. If he catches you with me—"
"Then we had better make sure this man, whoever he is, doesn't catch you," she said firmly, taking another step into the dark passage. "I've decided, Nicholas, and I'll not hear another word to the contrary. We don't have time to argue about it anyway, by all accounts. Now, where does this tunnel lead?"
"Into the Wall," Buckland answered, stepping in beside them and pulling the stone door back into place. "The structure isn't solid inside, but contains many rooms and chambers for Brunel's use. I've been working here on a project for Brunel, and I've had a chance to explore some of the tunnels and rooms around my workshop. I know a place you can hide."
"What project?" asked Nicholas. Brigitte detected a note of suspicion in his voice.
"I cannot say. Ah, here we are. Watch your head, Miss Brigitte." She had to get on her hands and knees to crawl under the banks of lead piping that criss-crossed over their heads. The air here felt warmer, and everything around her hummed and vibrated beneath her hands as though it were alive. Warm air moved under the pipes, caressing her bare arms, and in the distance she could hear a strange, regular whoosh.
Buckland stood, and helped her to her feet. She dusted off her dress and saw by the dim light of a lantern they were at one end of a long metal walkway, suspended over a floor of beam engines, all turning in unison, the rise and fall of their arms creating the whooshing sound.
Buckland stepped out on the gangway, and Brigitte followed, her eyes falling to the machines below, each one rising and dipping with the grace of a dancer. She saw the faint glow of fires moving between the machines – Boilers, keeping the engines running. But what do all these engines power?
On the other side of the gangway, Buckland pulled down a steel ladder and motioned for Brigitte for ascend. "When you reach the top, lean down and I'll hand you the light," he said. "When Nicholas is up there with you, I will push up the ladder and close the gate on the other side. Only Brunel and I have the key, so it should be impossible for anyone to find you."
Brigitte gathered her skirts in one hand and clambered up the ladder, pulling herself onto a cold metal floor. She reached down, and Buckland placed the heavy old lamp in her hands. She hauled it up and set it in the centre of what was a low, square room, barely ten foot from end to end. It was devoid of furniture and decoration, save the square grating of a ventilation shaft in the corner.
Nicholas heaved himself up the ladder, and knelt beside her. He looked back at Buckland. "Please," said Nicholas. "Explain to Isambard what has happened. He saw me leave, and he will not be pleased. And do inform the other Blasphemous Men, if you should cross paths with them."
With a cheerful wave, Buckland hurried back across the gangway. Brigitte heard a steady creak as he drew shut a metal gate on the other side. The clang of his boots against the metal faded into the darkness, and she was left alone with Nicholas and his secrets.
Brigitte set in with persistent questions, but Nicholas, so weary from the day's activities and their flight he could no longer stand, begged for time to rest before he told his story.
"I deserve to know."
"Yes," he sighed. "You do, but, please … not now. We are out of immediate danger, and it is a long tale, cruel in the telling, and I have not the strength to tell it." He slumped against the wall, and lifted up his arm.
Brigitte snuggled under it, and fell asleep quickly, her warm cheek pressed hard against his chest. But every time Nicholas' eyes seemed to be closing, he would hear a noise or sense an animal or see an image of Julianna dancing under his eyelids, and he would be jolted awake again.
The Wall was not nearly as secure as the tunnels under Engine Ward, and Nicholas' mind jumped from compie to compie as they raced along the pipes. Through their eyes he could see where they'd already gnawed through the metal structure in places, creating for themselves a network of secret tunnels. If he lived through this night, he'd need to have Brunel dispatch a crew to tidy up the gaps.
The compies spoke a complex language of scents, sounds, and signals, which he was only just beginning to decipher, but he'd learned enough to know that they had sensed the presence of the humans in this room. Used to the company of Boilers, these compies were wary of humans, and their scent signal leapt from body to body. Be alert.
But they were wary of something else, too. Some great and terrible shadow lurked in the corner of their minds. They could not see it in the dark, but they had heard it, smelt it. It worried them.
Nicholas could feel this shadow also, a looming presence on the periphery of his sense. He was too weak to hold onto it, and it was too great and dark for him to sense properly, but he knew whatever it was, it was nearby, and it was hungry
, and very, very angry. But he had enough to worry about now without succumbing to a nameless fear in the darkness. He tried to ignore the presence and follow the compies in his mind, skipping from one to the other as they made their rounds of the tunnels. He knew if they sensed more humans in the tunnels, so would he.
Hours drifted by, and their lamp – the oil already low – gave a final flicker and went out, plunging them into total darkness. Sometime later – when, he could not tell, for no light penetrated their cell, and he had lost his pocket watch somewhere in the tunnels – the compies did indeed sense a human presence. This man came by a different route, down from the official entrances above. The compies knew his smell instantly, and so did Nicholas. It was Isambard.
He heard the gate swing open, and the Presbyter's footsteps across the gangway, and he prayed to the Gods that Isambard had not come to give him over to Jacques.
"Nicholas!"
The voice rang out like a battle cry in the silent darkness. Brigitte shuddered away and gripped Nicholas' hand as they listened to Isambard climbing the ladder into their hiding place. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. Nicholas opened and closed his mouth, his throat dry and his words dying on his lips.
"Nicholas?" The voice was softer, but so close Brigitte screamed and leapt back. A second later, a match struck, and a shaft of light penetrated the room. Isambard's face appeared at the top of the stairs. He held up a lantern and a parcel.
"Buckland said you had no food, so I have brought some. And some oil for your lamp." He crawled in beside them and set the package down on the floor. "Nicholas … why didn't you tell me?"
"You are not angry with me?" Nicholas leaned away from him, remembering Isambard's face when he'd threatened him on the pulpit.
"If I am to understand correctly, a threat has been made on your life. I am concerned for you, and determined to keep you safe, at least as long as I am able." Isambard opened the parcel and spread out a bounty of bread and butter, jam, and a draught of beer. Nicholas could not bring himself to eat, but Brigitte ate hungrily, stuffing bread into her mouth faster than she could chew. "I am saddened you did not come to me earlier. I have power now, and what good is such power if I can't use it to help my friends?"