Dead Dukes Tell No Tales

by Catherine Stein

  Cliff abandoned the dance floor, looking for a drink. After that performance, no one would be wanting to dance with him, thank God.

  “You’re a bold one, Hartleigh.”

  Cliff turned toward the voice. The dapper man he’d bumped into on the dance floor—several times—held out a glass of amber liquid. Cliff accepted the drink. He wasn’t bold. Sabine was the bold one. He preferred to be off alone with his work, not having to deal with people.

  “Barton. Marquess of.” The man raised his own glass and took a drink. Blond and handsome, with pristine clothing, he was the very picture of a bored, indolent aristocrat. “I’m impressed. Not only did the reclusive La Capitaine appear at this ball, but it appears she came here only to speak with you. And you didn’t hesitate to cause a scandal with her in the middle of the dance floor.”

  Cliff took a swallow of the brandy. No, he hadn’t hesitated. Sabine had no expectations of him other than he do his part to assist her treasure hunt. To her he was simply Clifford J. Kinsley, scrap dealer, and that made her the closest thing he had to a friend.

  “You make it sound sordid,” he said blandly.

  “It was. The woman showed off a good inch of bare skin above her boots. Is she your mistress? She’s no beauty, but she’s a fine choice if you’re trying to continue the legacy of the Mad Duke and scare off potential brides.”

  “She’s my neighbor. Just a friend,” Cliff replied, uncertain whether to acknowledge the insult. Sabine wasn’t a beauty. She was an ordinary sort of woman. Or should have been. Yet something about her always caught his eye, and the eyes of others if they were willing to acknowledge it.

  “Ah, yes. Friend.” Barton chuckled knowingly.

  There was no point explaining. Cliff wasn’t going to so much as hint about their business arrangement. And he didn’t mix business with pleasure. He didn’t mix anything with pleasure, in fact. He bought it when he needed it, and that was the end of it.

  “What would you say to a game of billiards?” Barton asked.

  “I play billiards about as well as I dance.”

  “Excellent! I’ll win a fortune off you, then.”

  “I’m afraid my fortune consists solely of portraits of my dead ancestors, so I will have to respectfully decline. I think I’ll mingle and chat with some of those potential brides.”

  Barton frowned. “Isn’t that what you’re trying to avoid with your pirate friend?”

  Cliff only smiled. Barton’s comments had sparked an idea for a new plan. Perfectly scandalous one minute and perfectly normal the next. Let people think madness ran in the family. When the Mad Duke Junior went missing, no one would come looking.

  7

  Sabine plucked the mechanical spider from her teacup and poured herself a fresh cup. She handed the spider to Hartleigh, who passed it on to Lola. Sabine didn’t have much experience with elegant hotel dining rooms, but she doubted clockwork arachnids made many appearances. She glanced around at the primly-dressed patrons at the other tables, but no one seemed to have noticed. Most of the people here had their eyes glued to their morning papers.

  “Lo, can you please put Ralph away?” the duke sighed. “That’s the third time he’s gotten loose in a single breakfast.”

  “Daddy, that’s Mary-George! Ralph has the little brass eyeballs. And I can’t make her stop. She got wound up all the way and she flips herself over.” She set the spider on its back and it thrashed its little legs until it flipped right-side-up, then began to march down the table. “See?”

  “How many spiders do you have?” Sabine asked.

  “Six. Ralph, Mary-George, Mary-Sue, Billy, Wolfgang, and Peg. Peg used to be called Sally, but she broke a leg and now limps like a pirate with a peg-leg.”

  “Interesting.” Sabine would have to ask Hartleigh where he’d purchased the spiders. Perhaps she could commission a hive of wasps or a nest of ants. Swarms of mechanical insects could be an interesting and unexpected defense, and easily stored in a relatively small space. “Ooh, maybe little termites with tiny drills for mouths,” she said aloud. “I could scatter them on an enemy ship, or maybe dump acid-spitting ones into an engine.”

  “Enemy ship?” Hartleigh narrowed his eyes at her. “I thought you were retired.”

  “It always pays to be prepared. Speaking of which, are we prepared to storm the bank?”

  Lola hopped up from her seat, stuffing the still-wriggling spider into the pocket of her pinafore. “Treasure hunt!”

  “I object!”

  Sabine turned to the newcomer. “Good morning, Your Grace. How lovely that we’re all staying at the same hotel.”

  “It’s not lovely,” the duchess lamented. “It’s awful. Have you seen the papers?” She sank into the chair beside Sabine.

  “I haven’t, but Hawkes informed me that we are featured prominently.”

  The duchess splayed the paper on the table. “‘The Duke of H,’ as if we all don’t know who that is, is termed, in a single article, ‘erratic,’ ‘uncivilized,’ ‘clumsy,’ and ‘oddly charming—for an American.’”

  “They called me charming?” Hartleigh leaned back in his chair in a way that made Sabine fear he might tip it over.

  “Lady Lumfeld took a liking to you. But it can hardly make up for your ‘indecent behavior on the dance floor with a woman of questionable reputation,’ or the way you ‘left an ailing young lady fainted on the floor, in a shameful display of unmannerliness.’ Since you followed it up with perfectly polite and cordial discourse, everyone thinks you’re out of your head. Or that you deliberately acted out in an attempt to win the favor of a mysterious pirate woman, which also suggests possible madness.”

  Hartleigh rocked his chair precariously, not seeming to notice he was doing it. “They called your late husband mad. Why should it bother you?”

  “He was a peaceful, quiet eccentric.”

  “I’m usually a peaceful, quiet person. Aren’t I, Lola?”

  “’Cept when you knock things over.”

  He stopped fidgeting and straightened his chair. “Right.” He rose. “Please excuse us, we have an appointment at the bank.”

  The duchess stared up at him, her pale gray eyes wide and pleading. “Please no more scandals.”

  “We’re only visiting a bank,” Hartleigh replied. “What could go wrong?”

  “Never say that,” Sabine scolded, the moment they were out the door.

  “Say what?”

  “‘What could go wrong?’ Something can always go wrong, and if you say that, it’s sure to happen.”

  “That’s superstitious nonsense.”

  “Sky pirates are the heirs to the pirates of the seas, and sailors are known for their superstitions. I believe in luck, Duke, and I don’t need you bringing misfortune into my life.”

  “They’re only words.”

  “They’re tempting fate.”

  “Fine, fine. I apologize. Many things could go wrong and I hope none of them do.”

  “Thank you.”

  The banker who met them was a jolly man, with round, rosy cheeks and a shock of bright orange hair. He also, apparently, did not read the papers.

  “So you’re the new duke.” He pumped Hartleigh’s proffered hand. “Excellent. Excellent. So pleased to meet you. Brought the whole family along, did you? Wonderful. I’m sure you’ll find everything in perfect order, and I hope you’ll consider putting some of that splendid American money into an account with us. We love to work internationally, you know. We’d be happy to set up some investments, and perhaps handle the dowry for the lovely young lady here.”

  “What’s a dowry?” Lola asked.

  “Money set aside to see to your needs when you grow up and marry,” the banker replied.

  “Oh, I’m not going to get married. Daddy says only naive fools get married. Naive means like you don’t know a lot.”

  “Er… uh… I see. Um, if you would all follow me, please.”

  Sabine bit her lower lip. Scandal one, Duke zero.


  The banker ushered them into a small room with a single empty table and two chairs. He motioned for them to sit and departed, returning a few moments later with what looked like a wooden treasure chest from a storybook.

  “Here you are. One box, straight from our vault. That’s all the late duke kept here, I’m afraid. When you’ve finished, please let me know and we can return it to the vault, or you may arrange to take it with you.” He left once more, closing the door behind him.

  Lola bounced in delight and rushed over to look. “It looks just like real treasure!”

  Hartleigh unfastened the latch and lifted the lid. “The real strongbox is inside.” He lifted out a metal box the size of a loaf of bread and placed it in the center of the table. The wooden chest he set on the floor for Lola to play with. “Here you go, babe. Have fun.”

  Sabine eyed the plain steel box. A combination lock of three small, numbered wheels blocked her from the contents.

  “Well this is simple, at least,” Hartleigh said, flicking the first wheel with one finger. “We can flip through the numbers until it opens.” He set all the wheels to zero and pushed on the latch.

  The box erupted in a blast of heat and smoke.

  8

  Smoke. Fire. Pain. The searing agony spread across her chest, clawing its way beneath her skin, slicing through her flesh, tearing her apart as she lay helpless on the cold, wet planks. This was death. This was how it felt to have your life stripped from you. An instant that stretched into years. A sudden end that lingered for eternity.

  “Daddy!”

  The terrified voice of a child jerked Sabine from the horrors of her own memories. No heat, no fire, but thick smoke filled the room, choking her, paralyzing her with fear. The blast had knocked her from her chair, and she lay on the floor, her eyes watering, her limbs refusing to respond.

  The door opened.

  “Good God, what happened?” The hazy figure of the banker waved his arms, trying to clear the smoke.

  “Daddy!” Lola shrieked again.

  Scheiße! Hartleigh had been directly in front of the box. If he died, what would become of his spunky little girl?

  “Doctor,” Sabine gasped. “Fetch a doctor. Hurry! Lola, crawl out the door. I’ll help your father.”

  Sabine crawled toward the shadowy form of the fallen duke, her arms and legs obeying at last. Her fingers brushed against his arm, and he twitched. A deep, hacking cough echoed from his chest. Not dead. Thank God.

  “Hartleigh.” She shook him. “Hartleigh. Cliff. Can you hear me? Can you move?”

  He coughed again, then groaned.

  She tugged on his jacket and he rolled toward her. “Come on. You can do it.”

  Footsteps pounded toward them. More dim figures blocked the doorway, and a shower of icy water rained down on them. Cliff jerked and sat up.

  “Jesus Christ! What the hell was that?”

  Sabine shoved him toward the doorway, and they both crawled into the hall, sucking in lungfuls of fresh air. A sobbing Lola flung her arms around her father.

  Cliff stroked her hair and hugged her close. “I’m all right, baby. Everything’s all right.”

  He didn’t look all right. A goose-egg was forming on his temple, his spectacles were askew, and a trickle of blood ran down his right cheek. Small burn marks peppered his once-fine suit coat. He was lucky to be alive.

  “We’ve doused the fire!” a man declared triumphantly. The steel bucket he had used to dump water all over Sabine and the duke dangled from his hand.

  Sabine peered into the slowly-clearing room. She didn’t think there’d ever been a fire. Whatever little sparks had been released during the explosion had died quickly, else they’d all be more badly burned. What she could see of the room appeared undamaged.

  Bank workers darted here and there, opening doors and windows, fanning away what they could of the smoke. The moment it was clear enough to see, Sabine climbed to her feet and went to inspect the carnage.

  A few tiny singe marks dotted the table surrounding the remains of the steel safebox. The top had been blown into several chunks, which lay scattered across the room. Hartleigh’s injuries must have come from the flying shrapnel. Sabine peered into the box. It was empty, save for a few charred bits of paper.

  My treasure! She flattened both hands on the table, fighting the panic, willing herself to breathe. Stop. Think. There should have been a key.

  A quick scan of the room came up empty. The explosion hadn’t been powerful enough to vaporize a key. The trap had been designed to deter, not to kill.

  She picked up the broken box, held it up to her ear, and shook it. The faint rattle of metal on metal came from somewhere inside. A false bottom. Of course. She spun the combination wheels and pressed the latch on the now-disarmed box.

  As the duke consoled Lola and attempted to explain the situation to the bank staff, Sabine continued on, trying number after number. Several hundred later, the latch clicked, and the bottom of the box popped open. A small puff of smoke rose from the secret compartment. Sabine fanned it away to reveal a mangled key and more charred paper.

  “No! Damn you, Hartleigh, why did you have to try to open it without even stopping to think?”

  “Excuse me?” The duke stormed into the room, Lola clutching his sleeve. The lump on his temple had grown larger and uglier. He was steady on his feet, though, and his ice-blue eyes were clear. “Just how was I supposed to know it was booby trapped?” He touched the bruise on his forehead and winced. “And I believe I was the injured party here.”

  Their rosy-cheeked banker rushed into the room, along with a slender man carrying a medical kit. “Did you say you are injured, Your Grace? I’ve brought a doctor.”

  Hartleigh waved the men away. “I’m fine. Could we have a moment alone?”

  “Oh, yes, of course.” The banker bowed. “Please excuse us, Your Grace.” He stepped out, shutting the door behind him.

  Hartleigh frowned at the closed door. “It’s really strange to have people bowing and leaping to fulfill my every request.”

  “Oh, you’ll get used to it,” Sabine scoffed. “Give it another few weeks and instead of asking for privacy you’ll be puffing up your chest and saying, ‘Leave us,’ in your deepest, most lordly voice.”

  “I don’t have a lordly voice. And I intend to be gone in another few weeks. That’s your part of the bargain.”

  The bargain. Right. She’d been so caught up in her excitement over the treasure, she’d almost forgotten he was anything but her assistant. And she didn’t really blame him for triggering the trap, but lashing out felt better than crying over the loss.

  “I’ll uphold my end,” he said. “I’ll keep going through the house. We’ll find more information. Maybe another key. Maybe another machine. Who knows, maybe your treasure is even in the house.”

  “Very well. Let’s go. At the least, I can change out of these damp clothes.” She pocketed the mangled key. It was better than nothing.

  Hartleigh took the wooden treasure chest for Lola, and they all walked out to the waiting carriage, amid a flurry of questions from the panicked banker and concerned doctor regarding His Grace’s health.

  The duke’s personal carriage was a gilded monstrosity, pulled by two enormous mechanical dragons that may have been intended to resemble the Pegasus. Hartleigh summarily dismissed the banker and the doctor, climbed aboard, rapped on the ceiling, and ordered, “Home!”

  Sabine shook her head. He was fooling himself if he thought he couldn’t or wouldn’t be a proper duke.

  She stared out the window, trying not to sulk. Hartleigh was right. She had other options. She could employ a codebreaker. Keep searching. Perhaps the machine hadn’t even been intended to decrypt her message in the first place.

  “Daddy, Ralph is stuck,” Lola complained. “His leg got wedged inside the treasure chest.”

  Hartleigh took the box and looked inside. “Yeah, he got into a little crack, it looks like. I think I can wiggle hi
m free. Just a little… Whoa.”

  Sabine’s head snapped up. “What?”

  “I think this slat opens up. As if there’s something inside.” Hartleigh dropped Ralph into Lola’s lap and held the box out to Sabine. “Would you like to check for traps, Madam Pirate?”

  She ignored the snide remark and took the box without a word. She deserved a bit of censure for yelling at him earlier. Now they were even.

  She poked and prodded all around the loose board, feeling for anything unusual, but only the single spot responded to her touch. Nothing to do but try. She removed her dagger from beneath her skirt, jabbed it into the crack, and popped the board open. In a small hollow lay a winding key and a folded slip of paper.

  Lola hopped from her father’s side to sit by Sabine. “Is it a treasure map?”

  “I think it’s a note,” Sabine replied, unfolding the paper. She adjusted her spectacles and read, “‘If you are reading this, then you are my long-sought heir and my wife has deemed you of sufficiently good character to entrust you with the secret of the treasure chest.’”

  “She was supposed to tell me about this?” Hartleigh gingerly touched his forehead once again. “Goddamnit. What else does the note say?”

  “He talks a bit about why he hid the treasure.”

  The potential of the Heart of Ra to be weaponized makes it too dangerous to reveal to the world. If, however, you should have need of it for a truly honorable purpose, the encrypted directions will reveal the location.

  “Then he tells us the key is for starting the machine. Insert it, turn it two full rotations to the right, make certain that the paper and ink are loaded, the moving parts are lubricated, et cetera…” Sabine flipped the note over. “Oh, hell.”

  “What?”

  She read again. “‘In order to prevent decryption of the directions by unscrupulous parties who may happen upon my Sphinx device, I have hidden instructions for the placement of each rotor in separate locations. The first can be found at the convent of Sainte-Marie de l’Aurore, concealed inside the reliquary of Saint Felicula.’”