“Of course not. Sit down, you little fireball. We have to think of something that’s not gonna get us shot.”
“Think!” Maggie waved madly at the little mud house and beyond. “We got everything we need—we don’t need to think. We need to act, before everyone in our flock either dies or gets scattered so’s we can’t ever find ’em!”
“And what would you suggest, Little Miss Ingenuity?”
Maggie didn’t know what engine-ooity was, but she knew a solution when it was floating right outside. “You silly gumpus, we got the Stalwart Lass! And we got eighteen different kinds o’ nasty capsacious chile peppers right here and—” She flung an arm out and Jake ducked. “—in Jake’s brain we got the recipe for gaseous capsaicin.”
With his quick pickpocket’s fingers, Jake was already gathering up the raw chiles on the flat table stone. Lizzie pitched in to help him.
On the other side of the table, Alaia nodded with approval. “Spider Woman’s spirit moves with the power of the wind, and we must obey or lose that which we value most.”
Maggie saw the moment the penny dropped and Alice figured out exactly how to save Mr. Malvern’s life.
Her smile was so big, it was almost as if the sun had risen, right there in the room.
Chapter 25
The hotel, as it turn out, possessed no rooms without windows, but it did have the next best thing. James gazed with some satisfaction at the elegant whorls of ironwork covering the windows, securely anchored with iron bolts to the sandstone outside.
“It’s to keep them thieving Indians from ransacking the rooms,” Stanford Fremont said, chewing the end of his cigarillo and rocking back on his boot heels. “I trust your lady will be comfortable?”
Claire did not dignify this with a reply. She was firmly on the side of the Indians, and the moment she had even the slenderest chance, she would be ransacking these rooms herself for a tool or implement with which to get out.
She seated herself on a chair upholstered in moss-green velvet and inclined her head at her male visitors in a way that clearly indicated she wished them to leave.
Stanford Fremont winked at James. “I’ll leave you two to say your good nights. I’ll be in the bar downstairs if you’d like a nightcap, James.” Claire could hear his booming laughter all the way down the stairs to the lobby.
Gazing at a wall sconce of chased glass, she prepared to wait in silence until James decided he wanted that nightcap.
“I know you are angry with me.” He strolled to the mantel and rested an elbow on it, though the grate was cold and the night too warm for a fire. “But I want you to believe I am acting for the best.”
She could sit here until she froze him out, or if she must tolerate his presence, perhaps the wiser course would be to attempt to discover something useful.
“Whose ‘best’ do you mean?”
“Why, our own, of course. I have nothing against Andrew. I have no idea what he’s doing here, apart from some harebrained plot to sabotage the Carbonator. Is he really so angry that I chose to partner with Fremont instead of Ross Stephenson that he would harm his own device to prevent us using it?”
“I rather think that if he is indeed angry, it is because you fled the country without telling him of your plans, or including him in them.”
“Oh, I would have. There simply wasn’t time. The Texicans are an impatient lot, as you may have noticed. They make up their minds quickly, and their justice is equally swift.”
“Some justice.”
“This is a lawless land, Claire. They don’t call it the Wild West for nothing. If one is to hold onto one’s possessions, one must act decisively to prevent others from taking undue advantage.”
There was no point in discussing Andrew with him. She must be sensitive to the direction of the wind and direct the conversational course as she would the velogig.
“Does Mr. Fremont hold extensive possessions in these Territories?”
“Indeed he does. I saw at once that his vision for the Carbonator extended far beyond that of Ross Stephenson. Why, one could fit all of England into one tiny corner of the Texican Territory, and Stanford Fremont owns a good chunk of it. The potential for profit is much greater here—especially when one looks west, to the Royal Kingdom of Spain.”
“And the Selwyn holdings could use an infusion of that … potential.”
“They can indeed. Selwyn Place is practically falling down around my ears, and there are improvements I wish to make to the farms and machinery that are simply too costly without an investment like this one to produce an income stream.”
Claire wondered how many years of mismanagement it had taken for an estate as old as Selwyn Place to fall into such disrepair.
“Mr. Fremont seems like a most sagacious businessman,” she observed. “I am sure the Texican government relies heavily on men of vision to bring the country forward in true progress.”
“I thought you didn’t like him.”
She lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “Perhaps not at first. But it seems he may play some part in my future, so I am willing to reassess his qualities.”
James laughed. “And now you are playing a part, my dear. This ladylike compliance is most unlike you.”
Perhaps she had, as they said at cards, overplayed her hand.
“Making observations about the character of others is hardly compliance,” she replied. “I am still most upset with you for removing me from my friends.”
“Ah, but I don’t want to lose you. You are a young lady of resources, and I have learned to my chagrin not to underestimate you.” He met her gaze in the mirror. “It is one of the qualities I most admire in you.”
“I cannot see why, when it has played against you nearly every time.”
“I live in hope that some day you will look upon me with a softer eye. In the meantime, I enjoy your spirit—and take appropriate precautions.”
If she dwelled on that for more than a moment, she would lose her temper—and she was determined to expend no more emotion on him. Besides, the sooner he left the room, the sooner she could search it for a weapon. She had her ivory hair pick, of course, but short of stabbing him through the eye with it, it was not very useful at present. She had not saved his life only to murder him now.
As if he were a stage savant, he said, “You saved me from a dreadful death in an airship wreck, Claire, at some risk to your own life. Surely you must harbor some feeling for me deep in your heart?”
At last she met his gaze directly, not through the medium of the mirror. “If I did in the beginning, I am afraid you hope for too much now. James, you cannot belittle me in public, steal my future, and imprison me without annihilating those feelings you desire so much.”
He shook his head. “If I did any of those things, it was only to fit you better for the place you will hold in society. You must trust me to know such things better than you—I have nearly ten years more experience in the world.”
She could have retorted that the depth of her experience more than made up for the length of his, but she did not. Instead, she folded her hands on her blue merino skirt. “Speaking of experience, what are your plans upon our arrival in San Francisco?”
He crossed to the other chair, hitched up the knees of his trousers, and sat. She smothered her disappointment and impatience and gazed at him with placid interest.
“The things I have been hearing about that city would amaze you, Claire. It is built on seven hills, like Rome, and there is a World Exhibition planned there next year by El Rey himself, ruler of the Royal Kingdom of Spain and the Californias. They say it will rival anything Her Majesty or the French have ever built.”
“Rival the Crystal Palace? Or that tower designed by Monsieur Eiffel to moor Persephone? He must be very ambitious.”
“Stanford has seen the plans, and he says they are very ambitious indeed. In fact, that is part of our partnership here in the Territories. If the Selwyn Kinetick Carbonator proves to be all I believe it is, we
will not only have an exhibit hall that can hold the chamber, but an entire moving train inside it to demonstrate the coal’s longevity as well.”
“Heavens.”
“You may well look astonished. And of course, to manufacture chambers and other devices based on its power cell will make us some of the richest men in the world. There is no end to what we might accomplish.”
“It is the cell, then, that is the key.” She made a rueful moue of her lips. “And here I thought it was my movable truss.”
He chuckled and reached over to pat her hand. She marveled at her own self-control in not leaping to her feet and swatting him.
“The truss is a necessary component, and as my wife, I will make sure you are properly credited with it on the patent we file here.”
When she looked away, he misread her. “I see that you are tired, and no wonder. Your skin still bears the depredations of sun and wind. You will enjoy the journey to San Francisco, I know—especially since there is no way to expose your skin to the weather unless you stand on the viewing platform at the back of the train. By the time we reach the coast, your complexion will be back to its usual loveliness.”
She had never aspired to loveliness, preferring intelligence instead. However, she allowed her shoulders to droop, and offered him a wan smile.
“Until the morning, then.” He rose, tipped his beaver hat to her and would have leaned over to kiss her, but she got up and moved her valise to the chair he had occupied. At the door, he said, “Our train leaves at dawn. I will have the maid wake you.”
“Thank you, James. Good night.”
“Good night, Claire.”
The door closed behind him.
The lock turned over.
She leaped for the window, tugging at the iron scrollwork, looking for a weakness. Finding none, she tried the hearth next, flinging a towel down and lying on her back to peer up the flue, but it was merely a stovepipe masquerading as a chimney. Frustrated, she went into the water closet, but short of turning into a trout and swimming down the hole, there was no escape there either.
She tapped the walls, but no hidden doors revealed themselves. She lifted the carpet, but the floors were solid, with not even a crack between the heavy planks of dark, adzed wood.
Fuming, she sat at last upon the bed. It was clear there was no hope of escape tonight. She would have to do so on the way to the train, then. Or on the train itself. Trains had plenty of windows and doors through which to slip.
Since she could not do what she must, she would do what she could.
She took the longest, hottest bath of her life, washed her hair with creamy, scented soap, and washed all the clothes and underthings she had with her. There was a heated drying rail—wonder of wonders—in this godforsaken outpost, so everything would be dry by morning.
Then, clothed, clean, and with her mind honed to sharpness by fear and loss, she would escape at the very first opportunity.
Because she would not get a second.
Chapter 26
Maggie woke to the gentle touch of Alaia’s hand upon her cheek.
“It is nearly dawn,” she said. “Gather up your things, for Spider Woman will pass her shuttle many times in your life’s pattern before I see you again.”
“She will? How do you know? But we will see you again, won’t we?” Lizzie always came wide awake, with none of the sleepy stretching and curling Maggie did.
“I feel that we will, little daughters of the air.”
Maggie smiled and stretched up her arms for a hug. “I like that. Thank you for everything.”
Alaia smelled of wood smoke and warm grass and the capsaicin they had extracted from the chiles the night before, and her lips on Maggie’s forehead were soft as she gave her a mother’s kiss. “Come. I have given your little hen enough corn for many days, and she is safe in her box. Alice is waiting.”
The sky was a clear bell of ink over their heads, cold with the promise of frost before too many days passed. But on the hems of it burned a gray light that was rapidly strengthening to a shine of pure pewter.
Maggie hefted the lightning rifle, rolled in a wool rug with a lightning pattern woven into it—Alaia possessed a sense of humor—and the weaver’s clever fingers passed a wide knotted sash around her that hugged the bundle close against her back.
“Remember, daughter. Should you need a rope, merely tug these knots. The thread is thin, but I have woven metal into it. It will not break.”
Lizzie picked up a rucksack filled with food, Maggie collected Rosie’s hatbox—the hen’s head poking out and tracking their movements with interest—and they followed Alaia outside, where Jake was waiting for them.
“’Ow we getting to the ship?”
Her bow tethered to the pinnacle of stone that was her mooring mast, the Stalwart Lass rode serenely on the updraft not twenty yards off, but in between was a drop at least as high as the top of Big Ben.
“I ’ope yer recovered from last night,” Jake said, adjusting his own rucksack of food. “We got to go down the stone stair on this side and up inside that pinnacle. See the hatchway?”
Maggie groaned, gave Alaia a final kiss, waved to her boys, who lounged against the door eating their breakfasts, and plunged down the stair.
When she emerged at the top of the pinnacle opposite, legs aching and lungs aching, Alice was waiting on the gangway, utterly heedless of the drop directly below her feet. “Careful, now. That’s it, don’t look down. And right through here. Well done, Maggie.”
The gondola of the Lass was much smaller than that of Lady Lucy. It held the wheel and the instruments, and a speaking horn protruded from one wall, but there were no control panels, and no gears to signal changes in engine speed to the stern, because the engine was right behind it. A person only need shout to give a command.
Alice closed the hatch. Jake chucked his rucksack on the floor and took up a station next to the navigation charts and the huge viewing glass as if he belonged there.
“Nine, full reverse,” Alice said, and Maggie jumped nearly a foot as behind her, a gleaming brass automaton took hold of the gear levers and began to work them.
“Seven and eight, stand by to close vents.” Two more automatons moved stiffly to obey.
“Cor,” Lizzie breathed. “That’s ’ow they flew the ship wiv only two in the crew. The rest of ’em’s them automatons.”
“What should we do, Alice?”
Alice spun the wheel, and the Stalwart Lass floated up and over the mesa, where down below, Luis and Alvaro waved their flatbread in farewell.
“It’s going to take us a few minutes to find out what pinnacle they’re holding him on,” she said. “We don’t have much light to see by, but that means they won’t see much of us, either.” She straightened the ship’s course, and through the viewing glass—pocked with bullet holes—Maggie could see the city dead ahead, lights beginning to come on in some of its windows.
“I want you girls to go with Four and Six here, and station yourselves in the bombing bays, one in each fuselage. I can give you some orders through the speaking horn, but it’ll be up to you to keep them from shooting at us.”
“Aye, Cap’n.”
Alice grinned. “I suppose I am, aren’t I? I kinda like the sound of it.” She handed each of them a big burlap sack that clinked in a most ominous way. “Off with you, now. We’ll be overhead in a few minutes and I don’t want to give them a lot of warning. Leave Rosie there, on that hatch. And don’t forget to use the safety lines up top.”
The racket that old engine was making, Maggie didn’t see much hope of approaching undiscovered. But she and Lizzie had a job to do, and if she’d learned anything since Snouts had allowed them into the gang, it was that each person had their part. If you didn’t do your part, it put everyone else in danger.
And this raid was touch and go to start with.
She and Lizzie emerged from the top hatch and when the automaton called Four began the climb up the ladder into the starbo
ard fuselage—this one seemed to be an earlier model, and its legs were articulated backward, like those under their walking coop—she clipped a waving safety line to her belt and handed one to Lizzie. The wind whipped at their braided hair and sawed through their dresses. “Good shooting,” Lizzie shouted, and Maggie nodded the same back. Then she followed Four—who had not bothered with a safety line—up the ladder and into the bombing bay.
It held no bombs, which was something of a disappointment. But Four braced himself—itself?—against a strut and Maggie looked down past the rack where bombs might have been, down … down into whistling, empty air.
The ground floated past seven hundred feet below her boots, covered in the square reddish-brown buildings all laid out in neat, dusty rows, like cakes in an abandoned bakery-shop window.
And then they drifted over the first pinnacle cell.
Maggie gasped and clapped a hand to her mouth, rearing back from the bay and fetching up next to Four, who might as well have been a metal strut himself for all the response he made. The coffee she had bolted down just before they’d lifted rose in her throat, and she swallowed hard.
A skeleton, dry and bleached and horribly human, lay on the flat top of the pinnacle, the bones of one arm extending out and the little bones of its fingers hanging off the edge, as if the poor sod had tried to wave someone down in his last moments.
Maggie gulped cold air. She must not faint. She must not throw up. She must do her part.
“All right up there?” came Alice’s voice through the horn.
“Aye,” Maggie managed. A squawk in the depths of the horn, she assumed, had come from Lizzie.
“Say a prayer for the poor devil. It helps.”
Doing her part would help more. It would be downright satisfying, in fact. Maggie ordered her stomach to behave, and took up her position next to Four.
When the next pinnacle passed under her boots, she nearly averted her gaze, and then realized the man was still alive. He lay face down, one hand beating the rock in a steady rhythm. The light had strengthened now so that she could see color—the dark red pool of drying blood beneath that pounding hand.
Magnificent Devices Page 19