Black Mercury (The Drifting Isle Chronicles)

by Charlotte E. English

  And there was Clara.

  Clara Koh, his assistant and best friend. Maddening with her worrying and her lecturing; adorable in the way she took such perfect care of him, no matter how stupid or reckless he’d been. No matter how many difficulties he heedlessly piled onto her plate.

  She’d detest every part of the idea, and she’d detest him if she even knew how long he’d considered agreeing to it.

  Cas opened his mouth to reject Matilda and her revolting plan. But another thought occurred to him.

  Why couldn’t he follow Faulkner’s example—make a deal, then find a way to wriggle out of it later? Yes, she was a Shadow, and formidable… but he’d be free and back in the game.

  He could worry later about how to deal with her.

  Mimicking his father’s confident, businesslike nod, he said, “It’s promising.”

  Her permanent smile turned catlike with satisfaction. “All right, Caspar Goldstein,” she beamed. “We’ll do well together, I can feel it.”

  Cas managed a smile in response. It felt thin and unconvincing, but she seemed to accept it.

  “I’ll get you out of here soon,” she promised. “Faulkner’s leaving me in charge of you for the morning. We just need to wait for him to leave. In the meantime, why don’t we make some plans? Where do we need to go to pick up your bottles?”

  Cas briefly debated his options. He could lie, or he could tell the truth: those were the simple choices. He quickly decided on the truth. He wasn’t a very good liar.

  “We can start at my old house,” he said. “I hid one flagon there.”

  “And the rest?”

  “I’ll tell you the next one after we’ve recovered the first bottle,” he countered.

  “Clever,” she said coolly, “but inefficient. Planning our course of action in advance will improve our chances of evading Faulkner, once he realises we’re gone.”

  “You’ll have to let me do that, then,” Cas said firmly.

  Matilda tried to stare him down, but Cas wouldn’t budge. This level of wily deception may be alien to him, but he was his father’s son in some respects: he understood the danger in giving away all his power, even—or perhaps especially—if he had very little of it in this situation.

  Matilda let out a sigh, then nodded. “Very well, but you’ll do as I ask in every other respect.”

  Cas merely lifted his brows.

  “I am the professional in sneaking. You’ll allow that much.” This smile struck him as outright malevolent.

  “I have to protect my interests,” Cas said stubbornly.

  He noticed signs of annoyance in her face, which pleased him. He may not have many talents, but he could be amazing at annoying people. And the more annoyed she was, the less focused. Her aura of unflappable efficiency frightened him; he wanted to undermine that as much as possible.

  “There’s one thing I need you to agree to, or our deal is off.” Matilda’s tone was steely.

  Cas waited.

  “To get to Inselmond, we’ll need a gyro. Faulkner’s been cagey about where he expects to secure one. He wouldn’t even share that information with me, can you believe it? But with your connections, that will be no problem. Will it?”

  “None whatsoever,” Cas said, a plan rapidly forming in his mind. “I know where we can get one.”

  “I thought you might,” Matilda beamed.

  Cas thought fast. If his plan was going to work, he needed to get word to Hildy and Clara; but how? Matilda wouldn’t want him communicating with them.

  “I’ll need to talk to my friends,” he hazarded. “If they aren’t stopped, they’ll collect up all my black mercury before we can reach it and it’ll go straight to Faulkner. They might have half of it already.”

  Matilda’s eyes searched his, perhaps looking for signs of treachery.

  Cas tried to look imbecilic.

  “I think that unwise,” she decided. “I don’t know if I am the only one with eyes on your friends. If they suddenly stop searching, he may hear of it. I want him to be ignorant of your release for at least a few hours yet.”

  Cas cursed inwardly. He couldn’t leave his friends in suspense, thinking he was still confined, and he was going to need their help later.

  Maybe he could get hold of a pigeon somewhere, one who’d know Min. She was an unusual bird in Eisenstadt; her green and gold feathers made her stand out. But did that mean every pigeon in the city would know who she was? That was unlikely. There were a lot of pigeons.

  He’d run out of time to think it over. Matilda had risen to her feet and walked to what passed for a window in the outbuilding he’d been dumped in. Now she came back and knelt down behind him.

  “Faulkner’s gone,” she murmured. “Now’s the time to go.” She cut the bindings on his hands, and his bloodless arms sagged. He tried to flex them as she freed his feet, but they were completely numb: nothing happened.

  He couldn’t stand either.

  Matilda closed her eyes in acute irritation. “I’d love to just leave you here,” she muttered, “but I’m going to need you, aren’t I?” She knelt and began massaging his feet, none too gently either. Soon they began to hurt… a lot. Soon his hands began to cramp, too, as blood flow resumed, and he suppressed a groan of pain. He needed to look untouchable if Matilda was going to take him seriously.

  But, damnit, he was getting tired of hurting! This past week he’d sustained… how many injuries? His neck in the autocarriage crash… more assorted bruises in the second autocarriage crash… beaten up by the Shadow (Matilda!), knocked on the head, kicked about again by the Shadow after his abduction, and now his poor hands and feet nearly crippled.

  When this is over, he resolved, I am taking a holiday.

  Maybe he could persuade Clara to go with him.

  “Right,” Matilda said after a few minutes. “You’ll walk or crawl, I don’t care which. Just keep up.”

  Cas staggered to his feet and almost fell down again. It wasn’t just the bindings; he hurt in several places from the beatings they’d kindly administered, he’d spent all night lying on a cold stone floor, and he couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten or slept. He felt as weak as a kitten.

  “Keep up!” Matilda barked as she crossed smartly to the door.

  Cas stumbled after her.

  Cas’s former residence was still mostly in darkness when he and Matilda arrived; the sun was beginning to rise in earnest, but its rays hadn’t yet shed much light over the city.

  He noticed at once that security had been increased since his last visit. The old door had been swapped for one with a disconcertingly impregnable look, and… yes, that shadow beside it was a guard.

  Well, wealthy people could afford to hire guards. Great for them. Less so for him.

  “Um,” he said.

  Matilda shook her head. She couldn’t speak clearly to him because she had put her mask back on, and Cas had been avoiding looking at her ever since. That thing gave him the chills. It completely covered her face, and with its hollow eyes and long, bulging beak of a nose, it looked like something from a horror story.

  He felt much more endangered by her masked presence than he had when she’d still been observably female, fairly young, and rather attractive. It was absurd of him to feel that way, he knew; the mask hadn’t given her the strength, agility, and ruthlessness she’d used to overpower him before. That was hers, masked or not.

  Even so. That mask was creepy.

  Matilda said something.

  “Nope,” he sighed. “Still can’t hear you.”

  She yanked off the mask. “This is why I don’t work with other people,” she spat.

  He shrugged. “It was your idea.”

  She muttered something inaudible. “Wait here,” she ordered. “I can get in. Tell me where to find the bottle.”

  He eyed her suspiciously. “Are you going to hurt the people inside?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I would, if I needed to. But I don’t. Entangling myself with the
inhabitants would only be inefficient.”

  Strangely, he believed that. “All right. The bottle’s in the autocarriage garage. There’s a loose stone in the floor, back left.” He thought. “Three from the rear wall, two from the left side wall. You can prise it up quite easily.”

  “Excellent.”

  He shifted uncomfortably on feet still suffering from the stabbing, tingling pains of pins and needles. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Wait here. Feel free to try running, if you want; I’m much faster than you. I’ll soon catch up.” Her malevolent smile vanished under the mask as she slipped it back on.

  She lifted her left hand to tinker with something on her wrist. He couldn’t tell what it was in the dim light, but his instinctive guess was that it was a watch. What was she doing, checking the time? Why?

  Then she vanished.

  “Matilda?” he hissed. A thin beam of light crept up the street with the slow rising of the sun; other than that the buildings around him were still in darkness. No reply came.

  For the first time he began to wonder about the provenance of the name Shadow. The obvious explanation was that they resembled shadows themselves, with their dark clothing and their stealth. But perhaps it was more than that. They had a reputation for pure deadliness: was that because they had some weird affinity with darkness, so much so that they could blend into it and disappear at will?

  Cas shook himself. What was he doing, standing about speculating while Matilda was absent? He had a bare few minutes to do… something.

  He didn’t really consider running. He had no trouble believing that she would, indeed, catch up—and when she did, it would hurt.

  Waste of time, that.

  But maybe he could get word to Clara! Min had spent days and occasionally nights with him before, when he’d still lived here. Perhaps she’d made friends with some of the local pigeons.

  Lifting two fingers to his mouth, he made a soft whistling sound. Min had taught it to Clara a long time ago, and Clara had passed it on to him. If she was within range, that sound usually brought her swiftly to his side. It might be Min’s signal alone, of course, meaningless to any other pigeons; but it was worth a try.

  Nothing happened for at least a full minute, and Cas’s heart sank. So much for that plan. He was casting about with increasing desperation for an alternative option when the sound of soft wingbeats reached his ears and a dark shape dropped out of the sky before him. He could just discern the pale greyish feathers of a pigeon standing at his feet.

  “Hi,” he whispered.

  “Hi,” said the pigeon.

  Cas jumped as three more swooped down to join the first, one of them almost taking his nose with it.

  “That’s the food signal,” said the first pigeon. “You know that, right?”

  “I don’t have any food with me,” Cas admitted. “But!” he added hastily as they began to mutter, “I have a very important errand for one of you, and there’ll be food at the end of it.”

  “Is the payment guaranteed?” asked one of the other pigeons, strutting up to stand directly in front of his toes. It stretched its neck, staring up at him with its bright black eyes.

  “Yes,” Cas said, hoping that Clara or Hildy or somebody would have cake with them.

  “Please specify your requirements,” said the second pigeon.

  Cas stared at it, feeling vaguely unnerved. The damned bird sounded like a lawyer. “Do any of you know a pigeon called Min? Green and gold feathers. Exotic looking.”

  Four pairs of eyes stared blankly back at him.

  Crap. He could tell them where Min usually nested, but there was approximately zero chance that she’d be there when they arrived. Min would be out in the city somewhere with Clara, searching for his black mercury.

  He thought harder. Matilda would be back any second and he had no idea how to—

  “Top,” he blurted. “How about a pigeon called Top? Greyish feathers. Male.”

  Greyish feathers? How useless could he be? They all had greyish feathers.

  “Top’s me cousin,” said one of the pigeons who hadn’t yet spoken.

  The fourth one’s head snapped round. “You never told me you had a cousin called Top.”

  “Fourth cousin,” the pigeon corrected himself. “Twice removed. Or thrice. Yeah, I think it was thrice.”

  “Do you think you can find him?” Cas interjected. “I need a message delivered.”

  Pigeon number three shrugged its wings casually. “Reckon so. He owes me some rainwater anyway.”

  Cas let that pass. “Find him as fast as you can, please. It’s very important. Tell him this: ‘Cas has escaped, but has company. Meet him at Hildy’s workshop at dusk. Bring help.’ Can you remember that?”

  “I can remember that first bit, definitely,” said the pigeon confidently.

  “There’ll be cake,” Cas said in desperation. “If you all go, you’ll all get cake.”

  The pigeons immediately looked more alert. “Okay, repeat the message, please,” Cas said. “In order. One bit each.”

  “Cas has escaped,” intoned the first pigeon solemnly.

  “But has company,” added the second.

  “Meet him at Higgle’s workshop,” said the third.

  “At dusk bring help,” said the fourth.

  Cas stared at them in despair. “That’s Hildy’s workshop, not—oh, never mind. That will do. Go quickly!”

  The pigeons rose into the air in a flurry of wings and vanished. Cas watched them go in despair. How many pigeons in the city were called Top? Was Top-the-fourth-cousin the right one? Would they remember his message or would it arrive hopelessly garbled?

  He jumped violently when a hand grabbed his wrist. Looking round, he found Matilda standing behind him, silent behind her mask. She held up a flagon and nodded at him in exaggeratedly slow motion. It was the only way she could make the gesture apparent when encumbered by the enormous mask, he supposed, but it still chilled him.

  Then she made a “lead on” motion with her hands. Right. Now he had to take her to the next site. He’d probably have to go through the motions until they had everything, and then… then stall her until dusk, when he’d take her to Hildy’s workshop.

  There he hoped they would find at least one functional autogyro; he’d seen more than one there only a couple of days ago. That would satisfy Matilda; and if his message arrived, and in time, he’d have help in detaining her before she could take it and escape.

  If not, well… he’d have to do the best he could to disable the thing, and preferably her too.

  Simple.

  Squaring his shoulders, Cas nodded at Matilda and set off in the direction of the nearest overhead train station. The track would be his next stop: it would take up a bit of time in travelling there and back, helping him to drag everything out until dusk. In the meantime, he’d be hoping very hard that it would be enough time for his message to reach Clara—and for them to arrive with help.

  Damned luck. He’d never liked it much, and now he was gambling everything on it.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Clara sat in one of the deep, plush armchairs in the foyer of Goldstein Industries’ office, her head propped up on one hand, her eyes stubbornly drifting shut no matter how hard she tried to keep them open.

  Lukas sat opposite her, his injured leg stretched out in front of him, his crutches neatly placed on either side of his chair. His head was thrown back against the soft cushions, and his eyes were shut.

  They were not speaking to each other.

  It was almost one in the afternoon and they’d found only one more flagon. It had been Lukas’s idea to check Cas’s favourite daytime haunts. They’d visited his club, his favourite tailor’s shop, the grocery shop near his old house, and— it seemed—an infinite number of other places and had found nothing.

  Clara hadn’t been in favour of this plan. To her mind it was far more likely that Cas had been hiding the bottles at night. She couldn’t see him
walking onto the track in broad daylight and burying something in the grass without being interfered with. His favourite bars and restaurants would be worth searching, but most of them weren’t open yet.

  In the end she’d convinced Lukas of this, but only after nearly three fruitless hours had been spent wandering Eisenstadt. It hadn’t helped his mood that they’d discovered another bottle soon after adopting her plan, in the park closest to Cas’s neighbourhood. The idea that Cas liked parks was new to both of them, but she’d felt there might be more to his recent adoption of them than convenience, and she’d been right. Next to one of the benches—the one closest to his house—they’d found another buried container.

  But that had been the end of their luck. At last they’d agreed to come back to Max’s offices, in case of word from Hildy. This return journey had been tense; both were frustrated, with themselves and with each other.

  Worse, Albert the doorman had promptly produced an envelope for Clara. Opening it, she’d found another note inside, similar to the one Hildy had shown them before. It read:

  Black Hill Cemetery, Mai 13th, 10pm.

  Rafael Bauer’s grave will be open. Put the mercury inside and leave.

  Caspar Goldstein will then be returned to you.

  Do not bring the police.

  That meant they had two hours less than they’d previously been given, though no reason had been offered for the change. And something about the choice of location bothered Clara immensely. A graveyard? And Black Hill was one of the older ones, not particularly well tended and in an undesirable part of the city. It didn’t bode well.

  Luk shifted in his chair, and shook his head. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered.

  Clara blinked. “What?”

  “What we’re doing. Chasing all over the city hoping to stumble over Cas’s black mercury—which he stole, by the way, or doesn’t anyone care about that?”

  “Are you suggesting he deserved this?”

  Luk frowned at her. “Whether he did or not, that doesn’t change anything, does it? He’s Caspar Goldstein. He gets into trouble and everyone else jumps to fix it: that’s the way it goes. And we wouldn’t have to do any of this if his father would just pay the damn ransom. He’s got the money, the connections. What’s the problem?”