by Adam Dreece
Half an hour later, Christina put the key into the heart-panel of the operational King’s-Horse and opened it. “We’re lucky this one wasn’t really damaged.”
“The pedals are broken. Aren’t you going to replace them? I mean, how can we… oh, what’s that?”
Christina removed a copper cube from her backpack. “You didn’t think that Nikolas and my father made big toy horses to go about the countryside only at the speed of a person running, did you?”
“Um,” said Mounira, wondering. “Wait, this is the engine! Franklin was right?”
Christina attached some cable, closed the heart-panel, and locked the engine door. “It’s called a mercury-copper-magnetic engine, or MCM. It is extremely rare to find them.”
“Why?” asked Mounira.
“Because no one can make them anymore. Or so we thought,” said Christina.
Reaching into the mouth of the King’s-Horse, Christina flipped a switch and brought it to life. It started vibrating and humming. “I can’t believe I still remember how to do this,” said Christina to herself, thinking back to her father teaching her.
Mounira was in awe.
“Turn around. I need to put these on you,” said Christina, taking a pair of goggles out of her backpack. “These used to be mine from when I was a kid. I never go anywhere without them. I’ve been dreaming of this day.”
“Why?” asked Mounira, turning around and letting Christina tighten the goggles properly into place.
“I was six the last time I was on one of these with an MCM, and that one wasn’t in anywhere near as good of a condition as this one,” said Christina, smiling.
“What are these for?” asked Mounira, tapping the goggles as Christina tightened them.
“The wind,” replied Christina.
“The wind?”
“You’ll see, Little Miss Questions,” replied Christina, helping Mounira up onto the King’s-Horse.
“What about Tee and Elly?” asked Mounira, surveying the smashed and disassembled King’s-Horses.
“Tee’ll figure it out,” said Christina hopefully. “Ready for a wild ride?” She put her feet in position and gripped the reins. “You better hold on tightly.”
Mounira grabbed on to the reins with her hand. “We flew the rocket-cart. How bad could this be?”
Christina laughed as she moved her feet, and the King’s-Horse bolted.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Lady in Red
Simon walked quietly into his library. He’d started going through some papers he’d brought with him, when Cleeves discovered him.
“Oh, I didn’t realize you’d entered, sir,” said Cleeves. It was rare that Simon ever came into the library with anything but a booming demand for Cleeves to fetch him something. He’d suspected Simon had returned in the early hours of the morning, as he’d seen the driver Simon had used walking by earlier in the courtyard.
Simon’s return was a relief, and meant that Cleeves could stop pretending that his master was simply unavailable or in another part of the manor or city. Simon had given strict instructions that no one was to know he’d left, including the regent. He’d ordered Cleeves to send any important messages to him by the fastest couriers or by the newly installed Neumatic Tube. It had been a harrowing task for the old man to keep track of where Simon was; fortunately, everything had gone flawlessly.
Simon glanced at Cleeves before returning to his papers.
“Sir, it’s good to see you. You have—” said Cleeves, interrupted by Simon’s glare. He noticed that Simon had a purple-pink bruise on his forehead and a red, swollen nose. A quick inspection of Simon’s high-collared shirt revealed it was hiding some bruising around his neck. Although it was rare for Simon to have any signs of physical conflict, the years had made it clear to Cleeves that it was best for all if he simply ignored it.
“What is it?” grumbled Simon. “Stop being a muttering idiot.”
Cleeves pointed to the walled office inside the library where Simon often met with Marcus when he visited. “You have a guest, sir.”
Simon had hoped to be undisturbed for a few more days to allow his injuries to heal, and to think how he was going to deal with Abeland being on the loose. It was only a matter of time before Marcus found out, and that would unleash an entire other set of problems.
Glaring at the old bald man, Simon rubbed his throat again. “I don’t care who it is, send them away.”
“Sir, it’s—”
“Is it the Regent?” snapped Simon. “Because I don’t have time for—”
“The Regent is dead. Things are about to change,” said a woman’s gravelly voice from the office.
Simon shot a sharp glare at Cleeves. He gestured, asking who it was.
Cleeves leaned forward, and using a hand to shield the words, whispered, “She’s wearing a red hood and cloak. Her face was hidden but she knew things about you and me.”
“Richelle?” asked Simon, confused.
Cleeves shook his head.
Simon scowled at Cleeves. “You don’t know who it is?” His nostrils flared as he raised his voice. “Why did you let her in?”
“Because I didn’t give him any choice,” said the woman, turning the corner. Her red-hooded cloak was embroidered with gold trim. Though her face remained covered, Simon could see a brown-and-blue dress underneath.
Simon straightened up quickly, his eyes going wide as he realized her rank in the Fare. They’d never met in person, always dealing through intermediaries.
“Um,” said Simon, at a loss for words.
“It seems you’ve had a rather rough time recently,” she said, her hands hidden in the folds of her cloak.
Cleeves started to sweat as he saw Simon’s reaction. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Simon so visibly unsettled.
“Tea?” offered Cleeves.
“Yes, Cleeves, thank you,” said Simon hastily.
Cleeves stood there, confused for a second by the thank-you, before ushering himself off.
Simon rubbed his hands together, his shoulders rolling forward. “I don’t mean to be rude, but… why are you here?” he asked nervously.
“Do you mind if we sit?” asked the woman, as if Simon had a choice.
He smiled and gestured back towards the office.
“No, that room simply isn’t what I had in mind,” she said, her voice laced with malice. “There’s been too much treachery and failure in that room.”
Simon couldn’t see her eyes, but he could feel the heat of her gaze.
Simon pointed in the opposite direction. “I have a sitting area over here, by a fireplace. It’s… not lit, but I could—”
“It will do,” said the woman, settling the matter.
He led the way through the maze of tall bookcases to a pair of maroon velvet chairs. He stiffened as he realized that only one of them had a side-table.
She gracefully maneuvered around Simon and sat in the chair with the side-table. “Sit,” she said, gesturing with a red nail-polished hand. “I know how much you enjoy that seat.”
Simon stared at the empty seat uncomfortably. He was repulsed by the idea of sitting where he’d planted others and tormented them. He kicked himself for having chosen the wrong sitting area.
“Simon?” asked the woman. There was a familiarity in her tone that surprised him.
He scratched the back of his head as he tried to think of a different solution. Finding none, he sat.
The woman leaned forward. “Isn’t that better? Now we can discuss the Abeland problem. You know how critical it was to our plans that you handle this properly, and yet, you made a mess of things. This needs to be addressed anew, doesn’t it?” she asked venomously.
Simon’s face went white, and he bowed his head.
“Please, Simon. Don’t you expect us to know such things? We have ears everywhere. We have news run on the wind back to us,” she said, gesturing about with red-nailed fingers. She watched the discomfort play out on Simon’s
face. “I can see that I’m going to need to resolve the Abeland situation. You just aren’t filling me with confidence. It’ll be fun seeing him again; it’s been a long time.”
Simon nodded as he shifted in his seat.
Out of the corner of his eye, Simon saw Cleeves coming with the tea tray. He gestured with his head for Cleeves to hurry up, and as Cleeves tried, he tripped and fell. The china dishes smashed, the metal tray clanged as it skidded on the marble floor, and tea and cream went everywhere.
Simon’s face went red with rage, but he stayed anchored to the spot, glancing at the red-hooded woman.
The woman jumped up instinctively, her hood slipping back for a split-second, revealing a scarred, heart-shaped face. Her hair was black with streaks of gray. Her skin was blotchy, signs of an illness not long past.
Simon stared at the floor, hoping she hadn’t noticed. His blood froze as he realized who the woman was, as impossible as it seemed. He couldn’t believe that he’d been coordinating his treachery with her. His mind was reeling at the implications. He, like everyone else, had thought her dead.
The woman hastily pulled her hood back up, glaring at Cleeves, who had been staring at her. She turned to face Simon, her eyes biting into his soul, her voice harsh and angry. “It’s that type of impatience, that type of incessant need to manipulate things, that will cost you greatly. Trust me when I say that the Fare has never allowed anyone to jeopardize its goals, not for hundreds of years.”
Simon didn’t move a muscle. He’d seen over the years what they did to anyone they were displeased with, and it chilled him to the bone.
The red-hooded woman watched Cleeves trying to pick up the pieces, settling herself. After a minute or two, she said, “This will cost you, Simon. You will get instructions shortly.” She turned and left.
Simon listened to the subtle sound of her soft boots gliding along the floor towards the main doors. His mind was like a clogged machine. He couldn’t get past the realization of who she was.
“Oh,” said the woman sweetly. She had paused by the door. “I have a present for you. A little thank-you for helping convince Richelle to create her Order of the Red Hoods, which allowed us to walk out in the open.” There was the familiar sound of a brass tube being dropped on a worktable somewhere in the study. “It seems that someone got their hands on some interesting plans in Palais. Plans from one Nikolas Klaus. We expect you’ll be able to give us a written report on them in a few weeks. If you can’t have it done by then, well, you’ll have answered the question of whether or not there is a role for you in the next phase of our plans.”
Simon, his hands in his lap, stared at the floor. “Thank you,” he said grudgingly. “I will not fail you.”
“No, you won’t, and it was no trouble,” said the woman. “We’ll be in touch.”
As the library door closed, Simon let out a huge sigh and put his head in his hands. How had his reckless desire to become the master of the grand game turned him into a pawn? The last of the petty victories, like tormenting Abeland, were now meaningless. He couldn’t shake the feeling that no matter who won in the end, he was going to lose.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Not a Moment to Breathe
“That was a nice horse you gave them,” said Abeland, turning to Bakon.
They’d parted ways with the woman and her father twenty minutes before, as Abeland and Bakon turned on to a dirt road that bent away from the Belnian capital of Relna. Bakon shrugged. “They needed it more than I did.”
Abeland nodded. “Are you typically a good man?”
Bakon shrugged again. “I don’t know. Sometimes.”
“Ah, there’s my abode,” said Abeland, pointing to a white manor as it came into view.
“Not exactly a humble one,” said Bakon, realizing it was enormous.
“Nor my most immodest one, either,” replied Abeland, smiling. He found himself regularly glancing at Bakon, trying to figure out where he knew his face from.
“You should have gone with them. The woman seemed interested in you,” said Abeland.
“I’ve got a—” Bakon stopped his answer and mumbled. “I don’t want to talk about it. So this is your place? Is anyone even home?”
As Bakon got closer, he realized that the manor was smaller than he’d first thought; but still, it was a stately home with a sense of grandeur. The gardens in front of the house were overgrown, with some weeds more than four feet tall.
“Well, the gardener isn’t, that’s for certain,” said Abeland, grinning.
“How’s your breathing doing?” asked Bakon, stopping and scanning around for anything to be concerned about.
“I’m doing okay. Some of the tightness in my chest is slowly returning,” said Abeland, stopping for a moment. “It seems Simon’s lack of chemistry skill is helping me, for once. He simply doubled the concentration, which was very much what I needed. He could have created something truly nasty. I’ll have to repay him for that one day.”
Bakon wondered who Simon was, but figured it best not to ask. He was certain that Abeland hadn’t fully recovered yet from the drug. He couldn’t imagine a man like him letting a name slip by accident, and wasn’t sure what he’d do if he realized his mistake. During the walk with the woman and old man, Abeland had demonstrated his charm and ability to answer questions with as little actual information about himself as possible. Every now and then he’d slipped, often having a momentarily confused look on his face.
“I should warn you,” said Abeland, stepping in front of Bakon. “There might be a very angry—”
“Abeland? Is that you?” screamed a woman’s voice from a second-floor window.
“—woman,” finished Abeland, turning around. “Never mind. By the way, thanks for saving my life. You might need to do it again in a moment,” he said half-jokingly.
A woman in a light-blue dress with curly, light-brown hair came racing out of the house. “Abeland! How dare you—what happened to you?”
Abeland smiled uncomfortably. He had originally planned to be away for six months, instead of the year and a half he’d been gone. He was honestly surprised to find her home, given the remarks she’d made when he left. She’d waited for Abeland to drop the secrecy around their relationship and marry her, and he hadn’t been ready. That, however, now seemed like thoughts of a different man altogether.
Scratching his beard, Abeland said, “Hello, Lana. I would have been home earlier, but Simon and some old friends asked me to hang around for a bit… in prison. I just decided I’d had enough and needed to come home. I guess I lost track of time.”
Lana curled her lip and glanced at Bakon quizzically.
Bakon took the cue and extended his hand. “My name is Bakon Cochon.”
“Ha!” snapped Lana. “You couldn’t have made up a more fake name?”
Bakon clenched his jaw. “It’s my name.”
“Oh,” replied Lana, embarrassed.
Abeland nodded towards Bakon. “This man saved my life, so if you’re done making him regret it, I’d love to go inside. I need a shower, a shave, and a good meal.” Abeland gestured forwards.
“Well, we only have one cook left,” said Lana, turning to go.
“Is it Margaret?” asked Abeland hopefully.
“No, it’s Alfonso,” retorted Lana.
“Hmm, maybe leaving the prison before lunch was a bad idea,” sighed Abeland.
Bakon was about to wipe his mouth with his hand when he caught a glimpse of Abeland using a napkin. Remembering his manners, he found a napkin and wiped his face properly.
He sat across the rugged kitchen table from Abeland. The kitchen was bigger than Bakon’s house, with white cabinets that went up to the twelve-foot-high ceiling. The blue walls gave the room a sense of warmth.
The shower had been an interesting experience and taken a few minutes to get right. He knew none of the servants would complain about the mess he’d made, but wondered what they’d say to each other. The guest room was s
o grand that Bakon found it hard to imagine why someone would build something so big.
The shirt Abeland had loaned Bakon fit remarkably well, which surprised Abeland. He hadn’t noticed how similar their height and build were. He examined Bakon’s eerily familiar face, now clean-shaven, and wondered.
Abeland folded his napkin and placed it on his empty plate. “Something’s on your mind, and I’m guessing it’s not having a third one of Alfonso’s tasty sandwiches.”
Bakon smiled and gazed at his crumb-filled plate. “No, that was amazing. I was worried when you made those comments outside.”
Abeland smiled. “Well, if I’d said it was going to be excellent, you might have expected something greater than you got. There’s a lot to the psychology of things that one should consider.”
There was something in the way Abeland said that last sentence that reminded him of the way that Nikolas usually spoke. Bakon looked up from his plate. “I’m trying to find someone,” he said uncomfortably.
Abeland snapped his fingers, getting Alfonso’s attention. He waved him away.
Bakon glanced over his shoulder at the departing servant. “I didn’t mean—”
“Now that I’m cleaned up and have had a reasonably good meal, I have some of my better habits coming back to me. Making sure there are no unintended ears is one of them. Now, before we start talking, I need a dose of my breathing medicine. Care to accompany me to my den?”
They walked through the grand, echoing corridors of the manor, arriving at the oak double doors of the den. Opening them revealed a room with bookcases lining the walls, two chairs, and a fireplace.
In the middle of the room was a huge wooden chair, reinforced with steel. It had two bronze arms that held a huge metallic-and-glass helmet, with ribbed tubes coming out of it. The tubes connected to a desk-sized apparatus with levers and buttons that sat behind the huge chair.
“Before you ask—no, it is not some type of torture device,” said Abeland, smiling. “This is my breathing machine. It infuses the medicine I make directly into my lungs and exercises them.” He stared disappointedly at three pegs on the wall where his custom-designed monocles would normally be. He wondered what Lana had done with them.