by Tim Akers
“Just arrange the cab.” I turned to go, to find Prescott and make the drop. Harold put his hand on my elbow.
“I have just this moment spoken to Ms. Angela. She insisted that no one would be leaving tonight, sir. Assuming that I could get a hold of a cab at this hour, it would take most of the night for it to get here and return to the city. You will get home sooner if you stay the night and take a zepliner in the morning. With the rest of the guests, sir.”
I sighed and settled my hands into my pockets. I didn’t like it, but he was right. And it gave me more time to make the Prescott deal cleanly, without rushing. Maybe even look in on Mister Blue Eyes.
“Fair enough. Rooms are being provided?”
“Of course. As soon as the accommodations are ready, you will be shown your room. In the meantime, refreshments are being provided in the Grand Hall.”
“Swell,” I said. I tried to leave for a second time.
“One more thing, sir.” He held up the package. It was about the size of a professor’s book, wrapped in butcher’s paper and tied with twine. The paper was soaked. “This came for you, on the same zep that brought the… entertainment. I would have had it to you sooner, of course, but things have been hectic.”
I took the package. It was heavy and solid, wood or metal under the damp wrapping. My name was written in smooth ink across the front.
“Sure, no problem. You have some place I could open this with a little privacy?”
“Certainly, sir.” His eyes twitched, delighted for a little intrigue. “This way, sir.”
THE ROOM HE led me to was empty except for a dusty old table and a window without drapes. Lot of empty rooms in this place. He shut the door and I set the lock before putting the package on the table.
The paper was damp, had been much wetter at some point and had time to dry. The ink of my name was a little blotted. It fit with the story, that this had arrived on the last zep up.
I cut the twine with my pocket knife and unwrapped the paper. Inside was a well-kept wooden box, with a hinge and a clasp that was made for locking but was presently unsecured. There was no note. A small steel plaque in the middle of the lid was blank. I opened the box. The interior was velvet-lined and custom built to hold a pistol. It was a Corps service revolver, intricately decorated with brass engravings. There were a dozen shells, each held individually in velvet notches beside the weapon. I picked it up and examined the chamber. Five shells were loaded, one chamber was empty. I closed the chamber. The handle felt very cold and slightly wet, as though the mechanism had been over-oiled. Across the barrel was engraved the pistol’s provenance. It read FCL GLORY OF DAY.
It was the pistol from the crash, the pistol I had used to shoot Marcus, retrieved from the river. I stared at it in dull shock, then loaded the empty chamber, pocketed the extra shells and closed the box.
Who had sent it? That guy, the one who had jumped at the last second? Was that really him, out there on the stage, dressed as an Artificer? Everyone else was dead, weren’t they? Had he seen me shoot Marcus? And what the fuck did this mean, sending me a pistol in a box?
I crossed to the window, cranked it open and squinted into the storm. The sky was tremendously loud, hammering into the room with a demon’s roar. I hurled the box and its wrapping out the window, down the cliff and away. Then I closed the window, unlocked the door and went out. I needed a towel, and a drink, and a deal. And while I was at it, I was going to have a little talk with shifty blue eyes. Maybe the pistol would come in handy after all.
I SAT AT the bar and thought about the gun, about what it might mean. Was there another survivor from the ship, part of the crew who had seen me shoot Marcus? If so, what would they care? He was responsible for the crash, he was dying from that belly wound… it didn’t make sense. And if there were other survivors, where had they recuperated, and why were they revealing themselves now, and in this manner? And how had they gotten the gun? I had lost it in the crash, assumed that it had gone down with the Glory to the bottom of the Reine. I had trouble believing that guy had survived his jump. It had been a long way down, and the Reine was a cold, dark river.
But if it wasn’t a survivor, then who? I had been out for days after they’d dredged me out of the Reine. I didn’t remember that time, other than a few brief glimpses of white walls and machinery. I might have talked. I might have said anything while the fever in my blood burned through me, repairing me, consuming and re-creating me.
There were people who lived in the river, of course. People might not be the right word. The Fehn, we called them. Some of the folks who disappeared under the Reine’s black surface came back later, breathing water and gurgling worms, talking like they had been gone a thousand years, had seen the foundation of the city, and were coming back. I had a friend down there, a Wright of the Church. Old friend of the family. Maybe I should ask him.
Who would have cause and opportunity? That’s where to start. Not many people knew I was here. Lady Tomb, obviously. Prescott, and whatever connections he might have. Valentine and Emily.
My first thought was Tomb. The package had appeared shortly after our conversation. She could have given it to the butler to give to me. That would explain her sudden insistence on letting me stay, if she was going to plant some kind of evidence or accuse me of a crime. She might have arranged it in anticipation of the meeting going badly. But what did she know about the events on the Glory?
Valentine? This mission had come from him, originally, so he obviously knew I was here. And he was fond of cryptic messages. The man was a puzzle himself, and he liked putting his people in difficult situations, to test them. Made for a tight organization. But again, I could see no purpose behind it, nor how it would be tied to the Glory. I wasn’t getting anywhere.
None of it made any sense. If it was a threat, either from some hidden survivor, or Tomb, or gods forbid Valentine, it was too obscure for me. If it was a clue, again, I wasn’t even aware that there was a puzzle. Too many things about tonight’s deal didn’t line up, and the more pieces I stumbled across, the worse things got.
If I’d talked about shooting Marcus while I was recovering, anyone might know it. Maybe not the specifics, but enough to know that producing a service revolver from the dead ship would rattle me. But whichever way I thought about it, everything came back to the last flight of the Glory of Day.
Which meant it had something to do with that artifact Cog. Right? That made sense, more than anything else tonight. The Cog. I’d left it with Emily, down in Veridon, and now I was worried about her, concerned that I’d exposed her to some danger without realizing. I stood up from the bar, took my drink and walked around the hall without talking, without even seeing. I kept a hand on the pistol in my jacket pocket, running my finger over the cool metal of the engraving on the handle. Nothing I could do, right now, and I didn’t like that. I preferred active solutions to passive responses. The fastest way down the mountain was to just sit here and wait for the weather to clear. Unless I stole a carriage from the Tomb livery. Surely they’d have a garage. I stood by the fire and thought about that one, hard, weighing the anger that would earn me from Angela and her family against the perceived danger to Emily.
I didn’t really know there was anything actively dangerous going on, did I? Might just be a coincidence that guy looked like one of my dead fellow passengers. And whatever relationship was forming between the Family Tomb and Valentine’s organization was fragile. Borrowing a carriage could tip that balance, which could put me in a world of trouble with Valentine, trouble I didn’t need. I discarded that idea, got another drink and found a quiet corner near the windows, thought about the peril Emily might be in.
Who knew that I had given the Cog to Emily? No one. Who even knew that I had it? Marcus? He was shot, burned up, crashed and drowned. But someone knew, the pistol in my pocket said that clearly enough. And if they knew that… it was no good. Sitting here, all I could do was worry and drink, and that wasn’t solving anything. Best to n
ot worry, then. Probably best to not drink, either. Still had a deal to do.
I found Prescott with a tangle of other officers near the fireplace. I found an appropriate room, one with doors that led to the Great Hall as well as the service corridors that ran down the spine of the house, then spoke to one of the hiregirls Tomb had brought in from the local village. When the girl brought Prescott in a few minutes later I showed her to the other door and gave her twenty crown.
“Anybody see you?” I asked once the girl had left.
“Of course they did. She was insistent and rude.” He adjusted the cuffs of his coat. Looked like the girl had dragged him in. “You have the drugs?”
“I have no idea,” I said, and handed him the envelope. He sniffed the paper and grimaced. He disappeared it, produced another envelope and handed it to me. Felt like paper, folded over and over again. I put it away, next to the pistol.
“You aren’t going to check it?”
I shrugged. “People don’t cheat Valentine. Smart people, at least.”
“Well. I suppose not. We’re done here?” He motioned to the door. I shook my head.
“You’re with a whore. Give it a little time, unless you want everyone making fun of you.”
He frowned, then sat on the bed, folding his hands across his knees. “You’re new. Never worked with you before.”
“No, I’m not. But you’ve never worked with me because this isn’t my usual thing.” I put my hands in my pockets and leaned against the wall opposite the bed.
“Drugs?”
“Talking to people.” I grinned.
He shifted uncomfortably and looked away. We sat like that for a minute, long enough that he was on edge.
“What do you know about five bullets in a gun? Five bullets and an empty chamber?” He jumped, but not in the way I was hoping.
“Sorry, I don’t understand. Is that some kind of threat?”
“Twice tonight, people have asked me that. Twice. All the years I’ve been doing this, you think people would know when I’m making a threat.”
“So… so it’s a threat.”
I sighed and flipped my hand at the door. “Long enough. Get out of here, Register.” He nodded sharply and got out. I locked the door behind him, in case some other affectionate couple thought about using the room immediately. Wanted a few minutes before I returned to the hall. I had just turned from the door when the knob rattled, very quietly. Someone trying to open the door without making a racket.
Drawing the pistol, I turned and backed to the other door, the one that led to the service corridors. I opened it as quietly as I could and stepped inside. This hallway was plain and warm, but the floor was thickly carpeted to allow butlers and maids to slip through the house without bothering their betters. There was no one around at the moment, so I pulled the door nearly closed and waited.
Whoever was trying to get in was insistent. When the door didn’t immediately open they hesitated. A second later there was a scratching sound, and the knob began to hum. That was a keygear, tumbling the lock hard. These doors weren’t made to withstand that kind of attention and it popped in no time.
The door slid open, just a little, just enough to reveal a sliver of face and an eye, cloud blue. His hand rested on the doorknob. The cuff was dark blue; an Artificer’s cuff. He looked around the room, saw that it was empty, and disappeared. I stayed long enough to see an officer enter a minute later, each arm around a girl. I left them to it, pocketed the pistol and crept down the service corridor, eventually returning to the hall by way of the kitchens.
I made a slow circuit of the main hall, looking for my light-eyed admirer. Most folks were milling about, talking in tight clusters or roaring drunkenly at the bar. The Corpsmen were the worst off; the night was in honor of a dead zep, after all. They were nervous, and making up for it with drink and song. I understood. I had spent a fair amount of time lost in drink. Less song, but that was my merciful side showing.
He was nowhere to be seen. There was no one in an Artificer’s uniform anywhere in the room. I thought he might have dumped the outfit, so I paid close attention to people’s eyes. That almost started a couple fights. I still came up empty, and now the night was winding down, drunks wandering off to their rooms and servants scurrying about to clear the detritus.
“Councilor Burn, is it?” A voice behind me asked.
I turned. There was a man standing against the wall, a glass of whiskey in his hand. The ice in his drink had melted and separated, the thin amber of the liquor at the bottom, water at the top of the glass. The man’s suit was impeccably tailored; all black, with velvet cuffs and links of silver polished white. It was civilian garb, but he held himself with military precision. His eyes were dark and his head was bald. When he smiled it was without emotion; it was like watching a puppet smile.
“I am not,” I said. “Though my father holds that title. And you are?”
“Apologies, sir.” He tipped his head and offered a hand. He was wearing thin leather gloves, soft as a lady’s cheek. We shook. There was surprising power in his grip. “I am Malcolm Sloane. Your father may have spoken of me? No?” he said, without waiting for a reaction. “Perhaps not. But we are acquainted. You must be his son, then. Jacob. The interesting one.”
I adjusted my coat, flashed a bit of the pistol, enough to let him know he was talking on unfriendly ground. His smile became genuine.
“My. Yes. Interesting one, indeed. I must say, Mr. Jacob, I’m surprised to see you here.”
“I was invited.”
“Of course. I mean, just,” he waved his hand at all the people around us, most of them in uniform. “You’re not a very popular man with the Corps. You don’t worry about that?”
“I should worry?” I asked.
“Well, I mean. A lot of young recruits, all of them drinking. You aren’t worried that one of them will drink a bit much. Talk too much, maybe dare too much? Try to start a fight.”
I snorted. “Fights start sometimes. I can handle myself.”
“Oh, I have no doubt. Still. It’s something to think about.” He smiled coldly and looked out at the crowd. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe none of them have the balls.” He said that word strangely, like a very proper man trying to swear to fit in with the rough crowd. “But maybe they do something cowardly, hm? In the dead of night. A gun.” He turned back to me. “You are, after all, a very unpopular man.”
“How did you say you knew my dad?”
“Acquaintances. Old acquaintances. So.” He set down the glass of liquor and patted my arm. “Just be careful, Mr. Jacob Burn. There are some desperate people here, I think. Ah,” his eyes narrowed as he looked across the room. “You’ll pardon me.”
I turned to see where he was looking. Angela Tomb was making her way through the partygoers, trying to wrap things up for the night. When I turned back the strange Mr. Sloane was gone.
I sighed and finished my drink, then found Harold and plucked at his sleeve.
“Sir?” he asked.
“Those Guildsmen, the Artificers. Did they already head home?”
“No, sir. They’ve been made comfortable.”
“Where?”
“Sir?”
“Where are they staying? What room?”
“The, uh. The entertainment, sir, does not usually mingle with the guests.”
“Just tell me what room, okay?” I slipped the only hard currency I had brought with me into his palm. “Let’s just say I’m a curious guy.”
“Of course, sir. They are housed in the servants’ quarters, near the zepdock.”
“Stairs down somewhere?”
“Near the kitchens, sir. Just this side of the theater.”
“Thanks.” I cuffed him on the shoulder, then headed to my room. Didn’t want to look too anxious.
THE STORM KEPT going, maybe even got worse. Angela had given me a third floor room with a window. Not a benefit on a night like this. The room had been closed up all winter, only opened hours
earlier by the servants. The air was stale, and the sheets smelled like dust and cobwebs. The heavy curtains gusted with the storm outside, evidence of drafts in the old walls.
I lay in bed, fully clothed, until I figured everyone else was asleep or passed out. I took the pistol out from where I’d hidden it, checked the load again, then snuck out into the hall.
The lights in the hallway were dimmed. The carpet swallowed my footsteps as I crept downstairs. I got down to the servants corridors without anyone seeing me. It was quiet down there too, and dark. No windows out, just cold stone floors and wood paneling. I crept along, quiet as a cat. There were a lot of doors down here. Perhaps I could have gotten a little more detail out of Harold for my money.
I didn’t have to look long. They left the lights on, and their door open. It was around a corner from the main stairs, away from the rest of the servants. Not unusual… people got nervous around Artificers. All those bugs and their history of heresy. I came around the corner and smelled it, that heat-stink of fear and shit, like a slaughterhouse. I took out the pistol and thumbed the hammer up.
They were dead. It happened quietly, no mess, no fuss. They had been sleeping, the Guildsmen all in one room on tiny bunks. The master was in a different room off to one side. Each had a stab wound, straight into the heart. I didn’t check them all. I got the idea, after the first couple. There was another room, opposite the master’s bed, where the Summer Girl had slept, probably. She was gone. Signs of a struggle in here, piss on the floor, some blood on a broken bottle. She had swung at her attacker. Probably woke up while her keepers had been breathing their last. Tried to defend herself. Where was she now? And why kill all these folks? Not like it was self-defense.
I went back into the main room. It smelled in here, more than it should. I went back to the tidy bodies, checking each one. It was the fourth one. He’d been dead for a while, maybe two weeks. And he wasn’t an Artificer.
His bloated chest strained against the buttons of his military jacket. Square cut, the cuffs braided in the traditional knots of the Air Corps. But he wasn’t a Pilot. Patches were torn off his sleeve and chest, the threads dangling. His buttons were iron and stamped in the double fists of the Marines. Assault trooper. Heavily modded, his bones and organs sheathed in metal cuffs, iron plates welded just beneath the skin. A little engine so he could walk longer, march harder, fight until the bullets ran out. What was he doing here? And why had the Guildsmen been lugging around a two-week old dead body?