Steampunk Hearts

by Jordan Reece

  The rain stopped. The autohorse was now leading them down a lovely lane lined with cherry trees. Pastures stood beyond them, soaked and crumpled from the deluge with standing pools in the lowest points. Avenues wound away from the road here and there, and all of them led to tall manors in the distance. They put to shame the first homes that Jesco had seen in Rosendrie. Those were only fine; these were masterpieces of architecture and wealth.

  “Perhaps this woman killed Jibb, and sent a strong servant or two out in a carriage to dump the body,” Scoth said. “They might not have known that they were within the dead zone when they pulled Jibb into the alley.”

  “Why doesn’t the government put up a fence around those blocks?”

  “They did that several times, and posted guards to walk the perimeter. But those guards walked off the job in fear, and people stole the boards and bricks or knocked them down. It was seen as a waste of money when it kept happening. So they hung some signs at the roads leading into the poisoned area, warning to go no further, and that’s all. Luckily, that part of Wattling is off most of the main routes.”

  Jesco hadn’t seen those signs, but he had been within the police carriage and talking to Sinclair. “I suppose the people who live there remember well what happened, and stay away without encouragement. It’s plausible that the person to dump the body might not have known where he was. It was night. But would a servant have owned that timepiece?”

  “Kyrad Naphates does appear to give them out quite readily.” The autohorse turned down an avenue, its feet splashing loudly in puddles. “We shall soon find out.”

  At the end of the avenue was a driving ring centered about a fountain. It was overflowing from the rainfall, the small basin on top dripping down to the wider basin beneath, and that in turn seeping into the large one on the bottom. From there, it splashed down into the pool and dripped over the side to the pavement. Lights within the water dyed the streams a purplish cast. The purple became yellow, and then green.

  The manor was a flawless construction, white and with a pale yellow trim. The windows ran from floor to ceiling, and the curtains were pulled back to reveal beautiful rooms on two stories. The porch was generous, as were the balconies, and several chimneys puffed smoke into the air.

  The front door opened as Jesco and Scoth got out of the carriage. A butler stepped out in a pressed black suit and inclined his head in polite bewilderment. “Forgive me, gentlemen. I was not informed that we were expecting anyone.”

  “I am Detective Laeric Scoth with the Cantercaster Police Force,” Scoth said. “We would like to speak to Mrs. Kyrad Naphates. Is she home?”

  “The police! May I see some form of identification?”

  Scoth showed his badge to the astonished butler, who ushered them in and left them in a drawing room with a promise that he would return at once. On a side table was a weather-catcher just like Jesco’s. It showed a tapering rain. Beside it was a clock, which Jesco passed over with indifference until something drew him back. The second hand was passing over a carving identical to the one on the timepiece. Wheat reached up to a cloudy sky, which was strewn with flowers. “Scoth, look.”

  The detective took note of it. Footsteps returned down the hallway and the butler peered in at them. “Mrs. Naphates will receive you in the great room.”

  He led them through lighted corridors, each bearing nooks that held paintings of pastoral scenes. Through an open door was a second, larger drawing room full of cherry wood furniture and decorative glass. No one was in it now, but that was where the timepiece had been given as a gift.

  The butler pushed open double doors and admitted them to a cavernous room holding a dozen people. Several were crowded around a billiards table, shouting and laughing and too engaged in their game to notice the new arrivals. A servant came in from a side door, her tray loaded with drinks, and aimed for the table.

  Two men were reading upon armchairs, one lazily turning a carrel full of books with his foot. It squeaked with every rotation. Both of them were good-looking fellows, one dark and one fair, and Jesco looked back to the billiards game. The four people there were uncommonly attractive as well, the men young, muscular, and dressed impeccably, and the woman equally lovely in her blue gown.

  The butler was taking them to the far corner, where people were sprawled upon couches and chortling. Kyrad Naphates was among them, sitting in a careless posture upon a voluminous golden armchair. A wine glass was cradled in the palm of her hand, the stem hanging down between her fingers. She was older than Jesco had seen from his visions, and a tad heavier, but still radiant. A few locks of her hair hung over her breasts and the rest tumbled over the armrest and spilled down like a living flame. Her dress was long and white, and bore a golden belt that sparkled in the light.

  Looking away from her companions, she beckoned to Scoth and Jesco with ringed fingers. Her expression was mild and puzzled. “The police, you say?” she asked as they came close. She motioned at the man upon the closest couch to move aside. He did so at once and she gestured for them to sit down. Putting aside her wine, she said, “How may I help you, gentlemen? Would you care for any refreshments?”

  “No, thank you,” Scoth said after he and Jesco had taken a seat. “Mrs. Naphates-”

  “Please! Call me Kyrad.”

  “Kyrad, we are investigating the murder of a man named Hasten Jibb. Would you happen to have known him?”

  “Hasten Jibb? No. I know no one by that name.” She waved to the butler. “Three fizzy drinks.” He bowed and turned on his heel.

  Scoth proffered the photograph. It showed only Hasten Jibb’s face, but he was clearly dead in the shot. Kyrad took it from him and squinted. Then she laid it upon her lap, straightened in her chair, and reached for the side table where she withdrew a pair of spectacles from the drawer. “Old age,” she said mournfully. “The cruelest cut of it is that you still feel perfectly young, but your body disagrees.” Putting on her glasses, she took another look at the photograph. “No! I’ve never seen this face in my life. And he was murdered? I am sorry to hear that, but why would I be drawn into your investigation?”

  “Something was found at the crime scene; something that we traced back to you,” Scoth said, and traded the photograph of the dead man for a small box.

  She opened the lid. “One of my timepieces! But I never gave one to this man. He is a stranger to me.”

  “Can you give me your whereabouts nine days ago?”

  “I was here, of course.”

  “Can anyone verify it?”

  She gestured to everyone in the room. “And my staff as well. I caught a cold about two weeks ago, and spent most of it flat on my back in bed. It was only five or six days ago that I started to feel human again. A terrible inconvenience as I am looking to get chosen for a committee position in Parliament. They’ll have their vote soon and I was hoping to visit more of them in person to state my case. And then this storm descended so I will have to hope my record stands on its own since I could not. It may go to one of the two others trying for it, and in Alf Udusa’s case, that would be a damn shame. He’ll fight to undo every regulation he can.” Touching the timepiece, she grew agitated. “I have given out many of these as keepsakes, but that does not mean that those I give them to necessarily keep them.”

  “To whom do you give them?” Scoth asked.

  She snapped at the men upon the couches and they relocated themselves farther away in the great room. After she returned the timepiece to Scoth, she said, “I like to enjoy myself, Detective, and so I surround myself with lovely people. They stay with me a little while, and then they move on.”

  “Are they prostitutes?”

  “Yes. I contract with several escort agencies for their finest. Not just in looks, but in elocution and intelligence. And none can be in bondage to the work; I find that distasteful. Some stay with me for years; others last only a few weeks.”

  “And all of them receive timepieces?” Jesco said.

  “No, angel
s above! I would have handed out six times as many if I did. I give them to my special ones. The ones who please me most in our time together receive a timepiece, and of the most special ones, I give them the timepiece and also a boost. Some are happy to be escorts, true, but others wish different careers. Halowel Flowers, have you heard of it? Straick Halowel was one of my boys many years in the past. Darling, just darling, quick with numbers, keen for business and good at botany, so I set him up with a little flower shop once he left here and he has built it into an empire. I like to do that, give a boost to those who know what to do with it. I’ve put a few through university, and placed two or three in newspaper positions. Lowly ones, yes, but it’s the boost they need and they have to decide what to do with it from there.”

  Scoth brought out the picture of the nervous blonde woman. Kyrad looked at it and shook her head. Then he showed the picture of the black-haired man and she leaned over to take it from him. “Do you recognize him?” Scoth asked.

  “He bears a strong resemblance to a young man I had here, oh . . . five years ago, or six. Tallo. Tallo . . . Quay, I think it was. Yes, Tallo Quay! He was from Ipsin. This could very well be him, but he’s much thinner in this picture. He worked as an escort for Sunset/Sunrise at the time. They hadn’t recommended him to me, but I saw him at a party there and brought him home. It was a mistake, as I quickly learned.” The butler dropped off a fizzy drink for each of them and took his leave.

  “And then what happened?” Scoth prompted.

  “He was a delight at first. But then he began to hint at how he would like a boost into a theater.” She looked around the room to her escorts sternly. “They are being paid well enough to keep me company. I owe them nothing more than that, payment and fair treatment. But Tallo was a pushy sort of fellow, only pleasant when he was going to get his way. And, frankly, I’m a pushy sort myself. I cut him down to size quite sharply when his hints became outright demands. No, I was not going to introduce him to the directors and producers and playwrights in my social circles, and he showed some nerve one evening after a play we attended. We went backstage and he did it himself, made his introductions and described himself as my dear friend and a burgeoning actor seeking roles. Then he looked at me to confirm how gifted he was. I was enraged. He was in my home to look attractive and entertain me in bed and out; he was my employee and I was not his. He had an impeccable memory and could memorize a script in a day, but in the little plays they throw for me here, he had no expression. No talent for anything but saying the words. And even had he been in possession of stunning talent, I would have withheld the recommendation simply for his presumption.”

  Remembering the long-ago conflict was agitating her. “He grew sulky and sullen after I chastised him. I gave him a few days to sort himself out, but he had no intention of doing so. He didn’t want to return to the escort agency, nor did he want to be here if there was no grand gift of a theater boost at the end of it. I pitied him: he came from a pathetic background, hungry and cold and cowering from his drunken father. He didn’t know how to behave any better, but I wasn’t going to pay him and his agency to put up with it. I wouldn’t give him a boost to a theater company, but I did give him a timepiece on his way out the door. I figured he would sell it and make his way in the world somehow.”

  Here was another piece of the puzzle, but it didn’t fit with any of the other ones. Her agitation fading, Kyrad sipped her fizzy drink and considered the picture. “We all have dreams and we all have strengths, is that not true? And they do not always align with one another.”

  She looked at Scoth, who said, “That’s very true.”

  “Tallo’s dream was to act; however, it was not his strength. One of the hardest parts when turning from child to adult is reconciling the imbalance, should it exist. I took stock of myself at nineteen and my only strengths were beauty-” she passed a hand over her face, “-and a raw intelligence without much education. My family was all miners, and I worked in the mines myself from a young age. But I realized that I could capitalize on my strengths to better my position, and I did. I could marry a Joe Pick-Ax, have his children and struggle as all the women of my family struggled, or I could play a game with the wealthy older men who were interested in bedding me. As you can see, that is what I chose. But I was not going to entertain them for a night and be discarded. I was savvy enough to make a marriage with a rich, sick old fool who wanted a pretty young thing on his arm and my entire world changed. You must play the cards you’re given in life, not waste your time longing for the cards given to someone else! But Tallo refused his hand.”

  “Could Tallo have been angry enough to seek revenge upon you?” Scoth asked.

  Soberly, Kyrad said, “I want to think better of him, but yes, I could see him feeling spitefully towards me. It would be easier for him to be angry than to reconcile his own imbalances.”

  “How would he hurt you, if he could?”

  “Tell naughty stories, I venture, of the time we spent together. Tell everyone about the insatiable older woman and her many young escorts. But what audience this would find is not large. I am not so well known by the populace of Ainscote that many would care what I do and whom I do it with. And since what I do is hardly scandalous, and whom I do it with are adults who give their consent, I can’t see these stories being of much note. And it’s no secret in Rosendrie what I do, but when I give such hefty donations to the schools and city hall and the fire department and the widows-and-orphans charity and plenty more . . . well, let’s just say that people will overlook almost anything when you are giving them money.”

  Carefully, Jesco drank from his bottle of fizzy drink. Kyrad was a keen observer and said, “You did not let that touch your lips or tongue.” Realization instantly glimmered in her eyes. “You are a seer, are you not? Yes? Could I offer you some object to prove my innocence?”

  Surprised, Jesco looked at Scoth. The detective had not expected this turn in conversation. “I do not know that it is necessary at this time-” Scoth said.

  She cut him off. “I have told you all that I can about Tallo Quay, and I would like to not be suspected in the murder of that other man. Let’s cut straight to the quick of this and have it be done. There must be something of mine that would show a seer that I have spoken nothing but the truth. Clothing? I was in bed at the time of this murder . . . does it matter if they have been washed since then? Could you touch my blankets or pillow?”

  Scoth raised his eyebrows at Jesco. It was his decision. Gesturing to Kyrad’s hand, Jesco said, “Do you have pieces of jewelry that you always wear?”

  She extended her hand. The ring on her smallest finger was too tight, and wholly unlike the finer pieces she wore. It was a plain silver band with a dull blue rock caught in the clasps. “This one was my grandmother’s, and she gave it to my mother. Then my mother gave it to me. It’s only ever fit upon my small finger, and lately, it’s grown too tight even for that. I can’t get it off and should so that I can have it resized. But you mustn’t think I have put it on to hoodwink you.” She tugged at it hard to demonstrate. The ring did not budge.

  “I would be able to tell if you had,” Jesco said. This old ring would lay him low with all its history, but it would have the answers.

  “And I must have reassurance that this will be private, should you see business matters. I am aboveboard, more or less, but there are still things that would not be advantageous for everyone to know about.”

  “Your business matters are not of interest to this investigation,” Scoth said. “We’re only here concerning Hasten Jibb.”

  “I can nudge the thrall to more relevant matters,” Jesco said. “Scoth, would you be willing to get my wheelchair from the carriage?”

  “For after your thrall,” Kyrad said, and gestured to two of her escorts. They came over and she instructed them to bring the chair inside.

  “You are well-versed in seersight,” Jesco commented.

  “I was not educated much in childhood; I remedied tha
t condition as soon as it was possible after my marriage. I couldn’t bear to have my ignorance be a permanent condition.” Kyrad winced at her ring. “I pity you for what you are about to see. Nudge away from my bedchamber as much as you can.”

  Jesco did not need to touch the ring to be certain that this woman was innocent. But his feelings were not evidence. Moving his fizzy drink to the far side of the table in case he collapsed, he scooted to the edge of the sofa and removed his glove. Kyrad splayed out her fingers so that he would not bump any of the bejeweled rings. The friendly hubbub in the room was stilling as the escorts gleaned that something different was going on.

  Thunder rumbled over the house. The storm had not spent itself in full, and the light out the windows was dimming. Jesco pressed his finger to the ring.

  -he was-

  -he was-

  -she was-

  -she was watching him die-

  She was sitting upon a hard wooden chair beside the bed, and he was taking his last breaths. The only color in him was in the bright red of his hair, what of it hadn’t gone gray. Mine dropsy, she had known it was mine dropsy when he started to cough months ago. She hadn’t needed the doctor to confirm it.

  Twenty years and five children and he was still a stranger . . . that woman had taken the best of him and the strumpet had had the nerve to show up on the doorstep, begging to be let in to say goodbye. Goodbye from her and goodbye from their son . . . he had fathered a son upon her and the boy was a redheaded, sniveling creature born of betrayal upon her hip . . . much too old to be carried, much too old to be sniveling, she would have slapped her children for sniveling at his age . . .

  Jesco was looking at Kyrad’s grandparents. The man upon the bed was taking rattling breaths, each at a longer and longer distance from one another. The woman was named Amena, and she was watching him. Her mind drifted to her long-dead grandmother, who could remember a time when this land was without mines. Scant memories, since she had been small, but she remembered the golden fields of wheat belonging to their family, and how her lunch pail was full on the flowery walk to the schoolhouse. It was all a dream to Amena.