“In the meantime, Faulkner’s securing our autogyro. If your friends cooperate, they’ll be given the means to find you and dig you out before you suffocate. Let’s hope so, hm?” She paused. “Though I admit, I’m sorely tempted to just kill you now. You’re the most irritating person I’ve ever met.”
Cas couldn’t even close his eyes to avoid the sight of her staring murderously down at him. Seconds crawled past as she considered that option, Cas’s life hanging in the wind.
Maybe goading her hadn’t been the greatest idea, either.
To his relief, she backed away from the grave without shooting him. He was growing dizzy, the paralysis making it extremely hard for him to breathe; when a thudding sound reached his ears and the coffin rocked, he couldn’t immediately place the reason for it.
Then he realised the darkness around him had deepened. She’d thrown in the lid. He was lying mostly paralysed in a coffin, unable to raise the smallest objection as she began to throw earth in on top of him. He could hear the thud, thud of mud hitting the lid that stood between him and a faceful of earth.
His mind screamed uselessly at him in a blind panic. He was being entombed! By the time the paralysis wore off (if it did), he’d be deep under the earth and unable to dig himself out. His friends wouldn’t cooperate (whatever that meant) and they wouldn’t know where to find him and he’d be buried forever until he died a slow death by starvation or thirst or more likely suffocation, and his last hours would be long drawn-out and horrific and his father would probably be glad to be relieved of Cas and he’d just have another son with some new woman and forget Cas had ever lived and Clara would marry Lukas and they’d forget he’d ever existed too and and and…
Cas’s thoughts ran on and on, his mind close to unhinged by the horror of his predicament. At length—perhaps it had been five minutes, perhaps an hour, he didn’t know—his panic subsided a little and he was able to think.
It did him no good. His situation was irretrievable; for once in his life being realistic, Cas accepted that.
All he could do was wait, and hope that someone would find him.
Chapter Nineteen
An hour had passed since dusk. The time had gone so slowly it felt like six, but Clara’s watch insisted it had been but one.
Either way, it was far too long. Cas had not appeared, and he obviously wasn’t coming.
She sat with Hildy, Til and Lukas in a miserable huddle in the centre of the workshop. They’d concealed themselves initially, electing to remain hidden when Cas arrived. Once dusk had come and gone they’d given up on that, preferring the comfort of each other’s company. They sat in silence: nobody wanted to be the one to give up first. Nobody wanted to admit the possibility that some new calamity had befallen Cas.
Clara allowed another ten minutes to inch by, her stomach turning sicker by the second. Finally she lifted her head. “Right. We’ve got fifty minutes to make it to Black Hill with what we’ve got of the mercury. Let’s go.”
“We haven’t got enough,” Hildy said.
“Max?”
“I couldn’t move him. He might send police, but they won’t be there to pay the ransom.”
“Right, well. We’ll have to do the best we can.” Clara stood up, ignoring the cramp in legs stiff from sitting on a cold floor. “Does somebody want to wait here in case Cas turns up after all?”
“I’ll wait,” Lukas said. “It’s about all I’m good for.”
Clara didn’t like his self-pitying tone, but she didn’t waste time arguing. “Fine. Til, Hildy? One to go with me, one to stay with Luk?”
Hildy and Til looked at each other. “Cas said to bring help,” Hildy said. “You’re… bigger.”
Til smiled faintly. “You’re hardly incapable.”
“I know. That’s why I think you should stay with Luk. Clarry and I will go meet the rendezvous.”
“There isn’t time to argue,” Clara cut in. Where she’d previously been anxious to stay, afraid to miss Cas if he arrived, now she was suddenly burning with impatience to get to the cemetery. She wasn’t sure how long it would take to get there; what if they missed the meeting? What would that do to Cas?
“Min,” she said, looking about for her pigeon friend. “Can you split your flock in half? Half to stay, half to go.”
Min nodded and flew straight up. Arranged along the rafters were row upon row of pigeons, all waiting—reasonably quietly—for further orders. There were more outside, on the watch for crows. Min was already barking orders as she neared the ceiling; within minutes she returned with an entourage of perhaps fifteen pigeons.
“Twenty more to join us on the way out, boss,” she reported.
Clara nodded. “Then we’re going.” She looked at Til, and at Lukas. “Be careful,” she said, feeling concerned for the two of them. It didn’t seem likely that Cas would show so late, but if he did and there was trouble, could they handle it by themselves?
“We’ll get hidden again,” Til said, nodding seriously. “If anyone comes, we’ll see them before they see us.”
Clara took a deep breath, and nodded back. “Right.”
“We’ll take the autocarriage,” Hildy said, striding off. Clara followed her to the attached garage. She stayed back while Hildy started up the engine and it began to warm up. Steam puffed into the air, escaping through the suction vent Til had contrived for the room. The noise of the engine filled Clara’s ears, reverberating off the cold stone walls.
“Get in,” Hildy said at last, opening the door.
Clara moved to obey, but paused when another sound reached her ears. A shout?
“I heard something,” she shouted to Hildy. Turning, she flew back through the door into the workshop.
Lukas was lying on the floor. He’d moved since she’d last seen him; he looked like he had hobbled a few feet on his crutches before he’d been felled. She didn’t see Til.
“Hildy!” she yelled, unsure if her mentor would hear her over the noise of the autocarriage. She hesitated, heart pounding. Should she go back for Hildy, or try to help Luk?
Then came more shouts, and the sounds of a struggle. Following the noise, Clara saw shadows moving on the far side of the workshop, just out of range of the light from the lanterns. Somebody had come in through the door from the fake carriage show room, and Til was fighting them—alone.
“Hildy!” she screamed again, and began to run.
The sounds of running feet pounded up behind her and Hildy shot past, her coilgun in her hands. “See to Lukas!” she shouted over her shoulder, waving the gun.
Clara got the point. If he’d been shot, he might need an anti-venom, fast. Changing direction mid-stride, she detoured to pick up Hildy’s aid kit and threw herself down at Luk’s side.
Blocking out the tumult of shouts and thumps and shrieking pigeons, Clara forced herself to focus on Luk. The signs weren’t good. He was out cold, but he was sweating profusely and he already looked feverish. She tore open the kit and dug through it, her hands trembling so badly she kept dropping the items back into the box. At last she found what she was looking for: a set of phials, full and unsealed. Coilguns usually utilised the same range of poisons, and most kits of this size contained antidotes for the majority—at least for those that didn’t kill on the spot.
She supported Luk’s head and nudged his mouth open. The contents of the first phial disappeared between his lips, spilling only a little; she opened the second clumsily, her heart thumping harder with each shout and blow that came from behind her. She couldn’t think about it. Til and Hildy were capable people and they had a whole flock of pigeons on their side; they could handle themselves. But if she didn’t help Luk now, he would almost certainly die.
Three phials empty and two to go. She spilled some of the fourth in her hurry, and fought to slow down. The last two had to be injected straight into the bloodstream and she needed steady hands for that. Quickly she plunged first one needle and then the second into his arm, emptying the contents.
Then she laid him carefully back down, searching his face for signs of improvement.
There were none, but he hadn’t worsened either.
She didn’t have time for more. She jumped up and spun towards the rear door, turning so fast that she almost fell again.
The floor between her and the door was covered with the bodies of pigeons.
She swore fiercely and broke into a dead run, weaving a haphazard path through the trail of dead birds. She couldn’t be distracted by the prospect that one of them was Min…
Reaching the door, she found no one.
“Hildy?” she gasped, turning in rapid circles. She saw nothing, heard no sound at all. “Til?”
Then a high bird’s voice shrilled a name from the other side of the workshop. “CLAAARAAA!”
“Min!” she yelled back. “I’m coming!” Running as hard as she could, she shot down the length of the workshop, some instinct urging her to stay within the shadows near to the wall. She still didn’t know the identity of the attackers, or where they were, or how many she had to deal with.
She was halfway across the room when Min shrieked again, as if she’d been hit; then came a dull thud, as though something had hit a wall.
Clara ran harder until she neared the far end, and then she slowed her pace, taking care to move soundlessly as she approached the wall. This part of the building was quite dark, but her straining eyes perceived movement near to the large doors that led onto the street. A breeze touched her face as she neared them and she could smell the fresh night air. Someone had opened the doors!
As she processed this, the sound of an engine starting up ripped through the workshop. Clara used the noise to cover her movements as she concealed herself behind Til’s elevator project. Cautiously she peered around the canvas-covered contraption.
Hildy had a completed autogyro standing under tarpaulins at the back of the building. It wasn’t a new one; she’d sold the last machine that she and Clara had built, and there hadn’t been time—or fuel enough—to construct another in the past couple of days. This was the same one she’d flown up to Inselmond before.
The gyro was humming and beginning to vibrate as it gained power. She saw Til standing nearby, moving strangely slowly. His familiarity with the gyro was such that he could have it ready to go in minutes, but he was dragging it out. Why had he started it up? If he was going to get help, why wasn’t he working as fast as he could? And where were Hildy and Min—and Cas, if he’d ever been here?
She saw Hildy a moment later, sitting on the stone floor. The older woman’s hands were bound behind her back and her head sagged forward as if she was unconscious, or dazed. A man stood over her; a stranger, she thought at first: all she immediately saw was a moderately tall, well-built frame, an impassive face, and dark hair. Then he moved slightly, turning his face towards her hiding place, and she recognised him.
It was the same man Cas had met at the eatery that day—the one Matilda Bernat had brought with her. Cas had referred to him as Faulkner.
He had two coilguns in his hands—the one he’d used to shoot Luk, presumably, and Hildy’s. Both were pointed at Hildy’s chest.
A roar from the gyro claimed her attention. Til now sat in the pilot’s seat, preparing it for take-off. He kept glancing over his shoulder at Hildy, his face drawn with worry.
Faulkner stared at Til, his face hard. His expression said it all: any games on Til’s part would condemn Hildy.
Clara saw the situation in a flash. Faulkner wanted the gyro, but of course he couldn’t know how to pilot it. So he’d grabbed the smaller of his two assailants to use as a hostage to force the co-operation of the much larger, much harder to subdue Til. Had he shot Hildy or just knocked her about? Her obvious disorientation could be the result of either or both; Clara’s stomach clenched with worry.
“It’s ready,” Til rumbled. He shot another look at Hildy and she could practically read his mind: he’d wait until Faulkner was distracted as he climbed into the passenger seat, and then he’d make a move to reach Hildy.
Faulkner saw it too. He shrugged, a gesture of contempt, and turned. Keeping his eyes on Hildy and his guns pointed straight at her, he edged his way around to the gyro. When he’d almost reached the machine, he suddenly swung the gun in his right hand to point at Til.
Aiming at the bigger man’s leg, he shot him. A needle flew out, glinting briefly in the dim light before it buried itself in Til’s calf.
Til bellowed in surprise and pain. “You think I can fly this thing with that in my leg?” he gasped.
Faulkner jumped up into the rear seat, facing backwards so he could keep a gun trained on Hildy. “Go,” he grated.
Clara realised she’d run out of time, and there was nothing she could do. If she’d got here a minute earlier she might have had time to immobilise the gyro; as it was, she couldn’t do that, not with Faulkner on the alert and with two coilguns in his hands. And she couldn’t free Hildy without getting shot herself. She was forced to watch as Til put the autogyro in motion and drove it out of the workshop. It disappeared into the darkness of the street beyond, the noise of its engine fading into the night.
Clara left her hiding place and ran to Hildy. Stripping her of her bindings, she patted her face lightly to wake her. “Hildy?”
She was relieved when Hildy blinked and lifted her head: she hadn’t been poisoned. “Where’s Til?” she asked groggily.
Clara explained as quickly as she could, helping the older woman to stand as she did so.
“Heading for Inselmond,” Hildy said breathlessly when Clara had finished. “Has to be.”
Clara shook her head. “There can’t possibly be enough fuel in the boiler for that.”
Hildy blinked. “True. Then where…?”
“Hild—Cas isn’t here, is he?”
“No sign of him that I’ve seen.”
“It’s not midnight yet. Black Hill—maybe they’ve gone for the ransom.”
Hildy stared sightlessly at Clara for a moment; her thoughts were turned inwards, piecing everything together in her head. “It makes sense,” she agreed. “Wait for the black mercury to be paid over, top up the boiler, then head for Inselmond. Let’s go.”
Clara grabbed her jacket. “Lukas needs help—he’s had antidotes but he’s in bad shape. And where’s Min?”
A faint croak followed this last question, and Clara jumped to follow the sound. She found Min hopping about on the floor where the autogyro had previously stood. The pigeon was wobbly on her feet and dizzy; she almost fell as Clara reached her.
“Oh, Minnie,” Clara sighed. “Did you attack Faulkner?”
“Damn right I did!” said the pigeon hoarsely. She flapped her wings rather feebly. “Captain. The flock has sustained losses.”
“I know, Min, I’m so sorry.” And she really was. The sight of those poor, limp pigeon corpses wrung her heart. ‘Can you fly?’
Min lifted her head, coughed, and flapped. She rose slowly into the air, wobbly but airborne. “No permanent damage taken, Captain. I’m ready for duty.”
“Someone needs to get help for Lukas. Can you handle that?”
Min nodded and took off without another word. Clara didn’t stay to watch her fly. She could hear the roar of the autocarriage engine; it was ready to go.
Clara ran.
“Hildy!” she yelled as she reached the garage. “You’re in no shape to drive!”
Hildy didn’t move from her position in the driver’s seat. “Get in!” she shouted.
“I’m driving.” She dragged open the car door and got in, shoving Hildy aside.
“Since when can you drive an autocarriage?” Hildy yelped.
“Since I’m the only one who hasn’t been shot or hit in the head in the last ten minutes.” She had seen Hildy and Til and Cas drive the things often enough; it wasn’t hard. In a trice she had it in motion and was on her way to the still-gaping doors through which the gyro had disappeared.
“There’s no chance we can
beat them there,” Hildy said grimly.
“No,” Clara agreed as she guided the autocarriage out onto the street. It was taking her a moment to get the hang of the steering, but she was doing well enough. “We’ll just have to be… as fast as possible.”
Clara drove the way Cas drove: as if nothing mattered but getting there first. She forced the vehicle to its maximum speed and tore through the streets of Eisenstadt, heedless of the ferocious noise the car made, heedless of the risks. Yes, they might crash; but if they didn’t reach the cemetery until after midnight it would be too late for Cas.
To her credit, Hildy said nothing. She gripped her seat and weathered the ride without a word, until Clara brought the vehicle to an abrupt stop outside the gates of Black Hill Cemetery.
“Could’ve had a career, Clarry,” she said as she jumped out of the car.
Clara didn’t answer. She made for the cemetery at a dead run and darted inside, sprinting for the oldest quarter. That part would be the furthest from any residential streets, a perfect place for conducting intrigue: she would start there.
It wasn’t long before she heard the gentle rumble of an idling engine. Following the sound, she tore around a group of tall gravestones and straight into the middle of an interesting tableau.
The stolen autogyro sat just outside the rear gates of the cemetery. Clara could see it through the iron railings. The engine had been left running, ready to depart again at a moment’s notice; steam puffed gently into the air from its boiler. She noticed that the boiler was now nearly full of black mercury.
Just inside the gate stood Faulkner, with Matilda Bernat beside him. Til sat on the ground, his back resting against the railings. He sat with his injured leg sticking out straight in front of him, his chest heaving with exertion and pain.
Crows were perched overhead on every available branch, seemingly hundreds of them, eerily silent in spite of their numbers. Too many eyes glinted in the darkness as Clara approached.
“Caspar,” panted Clara, too winded for many words.
Black Mercury (The Drifting Isle Chronicles) Page 24