Iron and Blood

by Gail Z. Martin

  “Hello, Mark.” Rick greeted him with mock formality.

  “Hello, Rick. Flat-bat season over back in Merry Old England?”

  Nicki barely concealed a laugh as Rick gave an aggrieved sigh. “That would be cricket,” he said. “And yes, it ended in September.”

  “Shame you can’t get rounded bats over there,” Kovach continued, taking perverse glee at needling Rick. “Baseball’s getting bigger every year. I could introduce you to the sport if you’re interested.”

  Rick laughed and rolled his eyes and then muttered something under his breath. Their good-natured jibes made it feel, just for a moment, as if nothing had changed. Jake stepped to the fore and maneuvered between Rick and Kovach, something he had discovered long ago worked in everyone’s best interest or their banter could go on for a while. “Have you been to the house?” Jake asked.

  Kovach grew serious, and shook his head. “No. Mr. Brand told me to bring the men here and secure the airfield. Said you had some problems shoving off in London.”

  “You could say that,” Rick replied.

  Jake noticed that Kovach and all the guards wore black armbands, in mourning for Thomas Desmet. It was a stark reminder, and would be all too common for the next year. “We’ve got guards around the house, and the office,” Kovach said. “They’re discreet, but no one is likely to get by them without a fight.” He paused. “I’m just sorry we didn’t have them in place before…” He didn’t need to finish the sentence.

  Jake sighed. “If Father had suspected he was in danger, he would have asked you to post a guard. It’s possible he didn’t know, or didn’t think it would get this far.”

  A hard glint came into Kovach’s eyes. “You find out who started this, and we’ll finish it.”

  Jake did not doubt that. Private security forces—even small private armies—were not unknown in New Pittsburgh, though usually they were the province of the captains of industry, like the Carnegies and the Fricks. Kovach’s reputation as a marksman very likely would have found him a spot, perhaps even a senior role, in any of the large forces. He had turned down those opportunities to head Brand and Desmet’s security.

  “You remember my cousin, Veronique LeClercq?” Jake said as Nicki took his arm.

  Kovach gave a nod. “Ma’am.”

  “Pleased to see you again,” Nicki replied.

  Kovach eyed the workers tying off the airship. It would be a while before Cullan Adair had completed his post-flight check and was ready to leave. “We’ll have men here to guard the Princess,” Kovach said, as several of his guards came to escort Jake and the others to the black carriages that awaited them. “And we’ll have guards riding with the carriages.”

  He looked to Jake. “The word I got said to bring Rick and Miss LeClercq directly to the house, and to take you to see Mr. Brand at the office.”

  Jake nodded. “That’s what we were told. Do you know why?”

  Kovach shook his head. “Mr. Brand didn’t say. I didn’t ask.”

  Jake saw Rick and Nicki to their carriage, pausing long enough to see a guard climb up beside the driver and another take position on the running board. With a sigh, Jake turned and climbed into his own carriage.

  Kovach leaned in the door. “Just thought you might want to know. Henry’s already at the house. Don’t take this the wrong way, but are you sure he’s your brother?”

  Jake chuckled. “I wonder that every time I’m with him for more than five minutes, Miska. Thanks for the warning.”

  Kovach grinned. “That’s the beauty of being one of ten kids. It’s easier to avoid the ones that rub me the wrong way.” He shut the door and joined the driver at the front, and the carriage started forward with a jerk.

  They jostled over the rocky roads until they reached the newly paved highways, leading into the heart of New Pittsburgh. The familiar rise and fall of the land soothed Jake as he looked out at the steep hills that framed the city, their crests barely visible in the midday smoke. He wondered how different it would be to come home from the airfield on one of the new trains.

  The clatter of cobblestones announced their arrival in the Strip District, the warehouse and wholesale area on the city side of the Allegheny River where Brand and Desmet had their headquarters. During the Civil War, the Fort Pitt Foundry had built and shipped cannons from the Strip to aid the Union war effort. The Conflagration and Great Quake leveled the foundry and many of the old manufacturing companies, and upstart merchants rose from the rubble, taking advantage of the nearness of the river and proximity to the city of Allegheny and its factories on the other side.

  The quiet, mostly deserted streets contrasted with the morning hours when the Strip bustled with greengrocers and fishmongers, bakeries and grain merchants, and its docks were filled with cargo of every type. Just after dawn, stevedores pushed heavy carts laden with crates and barrels from the docks to the warehouses, and from the train station on Liberty Avenue to the wholesalers’ markets. Tucked in between the warehouses, pushcart food vendors called out their wares to tempt dock hands and clerks with borsht and pierogies, sausages, and fried fish.

  The carriage drew up to a large brick building on Smallman Street, in the shadow of the new St. Stanislaus Kostka cathedral, just up the street from where the Chatauqua Lake Ice Co. building was being rebuilt. The sun was low in the sky. Electric streetlamps blazed, but their efforts to dispel the gloom were sorely tested by the perpetual smoky haze from New Pittsburgh’s factories. Down the street, a noisy group gathered around a shouting man on a soapbox, waving hand-printed signs for ‘Dynamite’ Danny Maguire.

  “Not much changed since we were gone, I see,” Jake observed. The man on the box was too far away for his words to be distinct. But it was clear from his tone and the way he repeatedly slammed his fist into his open palm that he was passionate about whatever battle Maguire had picked this week to fight against New Pittsburgh’s big industries and the Oligarchy itself.

  “Probably quieter where you were, even if you were being shot at,” Kovach said, and Jake gave a skeptical snort. “Seriously—Maguire’s got someone out agitating nearly every day. He’s making a real nuisance of himself, like he’s daring the powers-that-be to come after him.” Kovach shook his head. “Never fails to get an audience.”

  The carriage pulled up in front of Brand and Desmet’s offices. Jake stepped down and Kovach walked him to the door.

  “I’ll be waiting,” Kovach said. “There’ll be a man at each entrance, as well as the extra security we put in place after your father’s death. Tell Mr. Brand we’ll have a carriage ready for him when you’re done.”

  Jake drew a deep breath as he turned the doorknob, preparing himself for what was to come. He squared his shoulders, and drew himself up to his full height. The urn, still wrapped in oilcloth, was under his arm. If the urn is behind all this, Andreas is going to have some explaining to do.

  “Jake, please come in.” George Brand stood in the lobby. He wore a black suit with a black armband and pocket handkerchief. “I am so very sorry about your father.”

  “I want to know what happened,” Jake said, meeting George’s gaze. “I want to know what got him killed.”

  “Let’s go into my office,” George said, gesturing down the hallway to an open door. Jake followed him down the familiar corridor, and felt his throat tighten as they passed the closed door to his father’s office. No light shone through the frosted panel; Thomas had always worked well into the evening.

  George Brand’s office was testament to the success of Brand and Desmet. The building had electric lighting—something Thomas Desmet had been quite proud to announce. The walls were paneled in dark cherry, and an antique Aubusson carpet covered the oak plank floor. George’s desk, like its twin in Thomas Desmet’s office, was a massive mahogany piece. Two leather wing chairs sat in front of the desk, and behind it stood large bookshelves, holding mementos of George’s life. Several framed photographs of George’s wife and children graced the shelves, as well as it
ems he had picked up on his travels around the world. To the right, above the fireplace, a mantle clock chimed the hour beneath an oil painting of the Yorkshire moors.

  “I think you’ll need this.” George poured two glasses of scotch from a decanter and handed one to Jake. “Drink. It’s not a pretty story.” He paused. “But first, tell me what happened in London.”

  George sat silently while Jake recounted the ambush, the wild carriage chase, and the airship battle. “I have to admit, I was relieved to see Miska when we arrived,” Jake ended his tale.

  George nodded. “Harold Cooper telegraphed the bare bones of what occurred in London. Cullan hasn’t given me his report yet, but from his telegraph I knew you’d run into problems.”

  Jake let out a long breath and took a sip of the Laphroaig. “What happened to Father?”

  George sat down in the tufted leather chair behind his desk.

  “Hold that question a moment,” George said. He held up a hand to forestall Jake’s objections. “I know it’s important. But there’s something I need to talk about with you first.” He met Jake’s gaze. “Your father named you partner in the business, should anything happen to him.”

  Jake choked on his scotch. “Me? Are you sure he didn’t mean Henry?”

  The corners of George’s lips quirked as if he were hiding a sad smile. “Your brother Henry is a good businessman, and well-suited to handling the New York office. But he lacks a certain level of imagination and expertise that your father thought to be essential to the future of this company.”

  “You mean, Henry doesn’t believe in the ‘shadow trade’ and he’s lousy in a fight.”

  “That’s part of it,” George replied. The ‘shadow trade’ was what Jake and Rick had dubbed the acquisitions they made skirting the bounds of legality. Sometimes, this involved stealing back an object that already had been stolen. In other cases, it meant liberating an artifact from an owner with dubious claim for a well-paying buyer who could convey the legitimacy of museum status. Many of the antiquities had been passed back and forth between kings, rogues, emperors, and ne’er-do-wells for so long that legal title was hopelessly muddled. In those cases, attempts to purchase the pieces, even for a museum, might be mired in scandal or politics, so discretion—and haste—were necessary.

  Brand and Desmet specialized in acquiring desirable objects for collectors and museums, items that were usually of suspicious provenance and dubious ownership, and on rare occasions, pieces whose owners did not part with them knowingly or willingly. Being in the business of obtaining valuable things and discreetly transporting them meant it was often best to avoid attention, especially from the governments or local authorities.

  Two of their frequent clients were Andreas Thalberg, and Dr. Konrad Nils, an antiquarian in the employ of Andrew Carnegie and the chief curator of Carnegie’s growing collections.

  “Henry is an excellent office manager,” George said. “But when it comes to thinking on his feet under pressure—”

  “Or under gunfire,” Jake supplied,

  George nodded. “Indeed. Let’s just say Henry isn’t ideally suited for the kind of… exploits you and Rick often handle.”

  Jake chuckled. “My dear brother has the soul of an accountant. I’m almost certain he’s never even fired a gun, let alone swung a punch.”

  “Exactly.” George leaned back, and considered the scotch in his glass for a moment. “The nature of the pieces our specialty business trades in are valuable because they’re unique. Only one person can own them, and powerful people don’t take disappointment well.” George paused. “It was a good choice not only for the business but for my interests as well. Can’t say I’m not pleased that you and Rick will continue the business… you keep him grounded, and get him out of at least as much mischief as you get him into.”

  Jake raised an eyebrow and sipped his drink. Over the past couple of years, he and Rick—and often Nicki—had retrieved a wide variety of antiques, curios, and oddities for some of New Pittsburgh’s wealthiest collectors. Most had been straightforward—if expensive—acquisitions, but some of the pieces had a murky past, and others had been rumored to be cursed, or worse. A few of those adventures had included wild rides and close calls.

  “So… how does this have anything to do with what happened to Father? Was it a robbery?”

  George frowned. “Your father was known for working late. Four days ago, when he was nearly alone in the building, Thomas collapsed and died. Later that night, someone broke in and ransacked his office.” He paused. “They also went through the shipping room looking for—something. We don’t know what. None of the crates were missing. But someone expected something important to be here, and I believe they killed Thomas to get it.”

  That would have been close to the time I had that nightmare, Jake thought to himself as George took a sip of the scotch and continued.

  “I came as soon as the janitor called me. He found the body. By the time I got here, I discovered Andreas Thalberg waiting for me in my office. He said he had come for a meeting with your father, and arrived too late to prevent his death. He also said that there was, as he put it, ‘an imprint of dark magic’ that clung to the body and the office.”

  George shrugged. “I’ll admit, initially I was skeptical about magic. I’m Anglican, for God’s sake! We stopped believing in that kind of thing back in Shakespeare’s day.” He let out a long breath. “Then I met Andreas. The man is what he claims to be. Over time, I’ve seen too much proof to doubt it. And Andreas is certain that magic was used to kill your father.”

  “You think Father was killed over the urn we picked up in London?” Jake felt his anger rise. “Because someone in London certainly wanted it very badly.”

  “The urn did not lead to your father’s death.”

  Jake and George both started. Andreas Thalberg stood in the doorway. He was several inches taller than Jake, with a slender, strong build and an aristocratic manner. His dark brown hair was longer than the current fashion, but on Thalberg, Jake thought, it looked right. Thalberg looked to be in his early thirties, but his pale blue eyes gave a clue to his real age. They spoke of centuries, not decades. Jake wondered whether Thalberg’s apparent youth was more a product of being a vampire or a witch—or both.

  “How can you be sure?” Jake challenged. “Someone in London wanted that urn enough to try to kill us—twice.”

  “My regrets.” Thalberg said, walking into the room. “That was… unfortunate and unforeseen. But I don’t believe the would-be assassins had any connection to the urn, or I would have taken additional precautions.”

  “If the urn isn’t behind Father’s death, then what is?” Jake snapped. “And if it is, will whoever wants the urn stop trying to kill Rick and me once we’ve turned it over to you?”

  To Jake’s surprise, Andreas chuckled. He glanced toward George, and nodded. “Yes. I see why Thomas wanted this one as his heir. He has the spark, doesn’t he?”

  “Do you know who killed my father?” Jake asked, refusing to be sidetracked.

  All traces of humor drained from Andreas’s expression. “No. I do not. I assure you, I am making my own inquiries into the matter. But I do believe that Thomas Desmet’s death was caused by magical means, and it is quite likely that whoever killed him did so not because of my urn, but because of something your company has handled recently—or that the killer feared you would handle soon.”

  George frowned. “To my knowledge, the urn is the only magical item we’ve handled lately.”

  An ironic smile touched Andreas’s thin lips. “The urn is not magical. It has other value, but no magic. Do you assume that everything I commission is magic, and that none of your other cargo is? You would be mistaken on both counts.”

  Jake gave Andreas a hard stare. “The real question is—if it isn’t the urn someone wanted, what were they after? Have there been any unusual purchases or shipments—even if they weren’t magical?”

  George and Andreas traded a look.
“Likely, since whoever ransacked the office and shipping room was obviously looking for something,” George said. “But other than a few shipping ledgers, nothing’s missing, so odds are it wasn’t here.” He held up a sheet of paper. “I made a list of the most recent shipments and the people who commissioned them. We keep duplicates of all our ledgers, so we know which ones were taken. Andreas recognized a couple of people who may have been dealing in magical items. He will look into those. The others, I’d like you and Rick to check into, see what you can find out. Maybe something will lead us to Thomas’s killer.”

  “Glad to do it,” Jake said, reaching across the desk for the paper and tucking it into his jacket pocket.

  “After the funeral,” George continued, “I’m going to drop out of sight for a while. Mark Kovach thinks that’s wise. We’ve had a couple more incidents, attempted break-ins, here at the office and it seems prudent to be careful. I’ve already sent the rest of the family over to the Continent to visit relatives. And as a precaution, I’ve moved our files about the ‘special acquisitions’ to the house where I’ll be staying. That way, they’re less vulnerable—and so am I.” He sighed. “And as if we didn’t have enough to deal with, those Department agents have been around again, trying to recruit us. Doesn’t seem to matter how many times we tell them to go away, they still come back again.”

  Jake folded his arms. “Could the Oligarchy be involved?”

  In the chaos after the Great Quake and the Conflagration, civil government had fallen into anarchy and the city’s industrialists had used their private armies and the Pinkertons to take control and maintain order. Although the government was eventually restored, the industrialists had no intention of relinquishing their newfound power. It was well known, though not spoken of aloud, that the city had a shadow government, the Oligarchy, which influenced the city’s leaders from behind the scenes.