by C. B. Ash
As Henry strode off down the pier, Tonks glanced over his shoulder, looking around for anyone else that might be watching them. Satisfied no one was, he looked back at the doctor. “This is exactly why I don’t play Liar’s dice with ya. Ya took a great big chance there. We don’t know if we can trust him one whit.”
“Gut feeling,” Thorias replied. “Just a gut feeling we could. Like the captain often says, ‘trust your instincts’.”
Unconvinced, Tonks watched Henry suspiciously for a long moment, then shook his head in dismay. “All right. Well, if we’re to trust him and whatever he’s plannin’, we’d better do as he suggests.”
Quickly, the doctor and the pilot ducked behind a long stack of crates as suggested. Just as Henry foretold, the stack was rather long, running for at least forty paces down the curved boardwalk. The wall it created was easily seven feet tall, obscuring their view of anyone who might be watching them. However, it likewise concealed them from the view of anyone who might be looking.
At the end of the row, Tonks waved a hand for Thorias to wait. The pilot eased out, looking as if he was just someone wasting time. All the while, he was watching out of the corner of his eye, keeping that same shadowy corner as before within sight.
There in the gloom, the thin, gangly man still stood. Only now, he was much more animated. Frantically, he looked out at the dock where he was obviously expecting Tonks and Thorias to be. On not seeing them, he moved away from the corner and into the sunlight for a better look.
Suddenly, from back the way they had come, shouts of alarm cut through the air as a gout of hot steam erupted like a geyser. Thorias looked back to see Henry, accompanied by the four other dock hands along with the man inside the CASS. They had surrounded the spider-legged, steam-powered cargo winch.
From the top of the winch, steam blew out of the engine’s boiler with a furious hiss, immediately cooling into fog-like, snowy clouds. As the fog rapidly descended upon the dock and boardwalk, the cluster of dock workers stood huddled together, deep in conversation about what needed to be done.
The doctor chuckled, “I think we can trust them.”
Tonks, who was still watching the thin, gangly man several yards away, made a wry face, “for our sake, I’m hopin’ so.”
Just then, the white cottony cloud of chilled steam blew across the boardwalk, obscuring Tonks’ view. More importantly, it obscured any view of Tonks and Thorias from across the boardwalk.
“Time to go. That won’t last long out here,” he said curtly. The two men walked briskly out from behind the crates, proceeding along the boardwalk to put as much distance between them and the Brass Griffin as they could.
Several yards and many quick steps later, the pair slowed their pace. Tonks looked around. The area of the boardwalk they were in was not that much different than the one they had left. The buildings sitting on the edge of the boardwalk neatly followed the circular curve of the station. Brightly colored awnings were fluttering in the icy wind. People briskly walked along, either carrying packages or looking as if they might purchase something from one of the few available shops.
Out in front of the stores, the wide boardwalk separated the buildings from the regular appearance of a dock, thrust out into the cold, crisp air. Ships of many different kinds were berthed in many of the docking slips there. From where the two crewmen from the Brass Griffin stood, they could see at least ten ships, if not more. All of them were easily large enough to carry the entire compliment of kidnapped passengers from the Fair Winds.
“I say, we have our work cut out for us,” Thorias admitted begrudgingly. “Any idea how we’ll find anything in all this?”
“Luck,” Tonks said with a wry grin, “and a lot of walkin’.”
“Brilliant,” Thorias replied, not quite as amused.
Tonks flexed his gloved hands as the cold tried to seep in. “Well, lets be thinkin’ this through. Other than the people he’s taken, there’s the matter of that cargo he pinched.”
“Not that we’re quite sure of what he did take,” Thorias replied, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets to warm them.
The pilot nodded, then shrugged in resignation, “Ya have me there. But he took some things, so he’ll want to offload them, I’d think. For no other reason than to buy fuel, food and such. We could check the crates that have been offloaded. One or more might still be stamped ‘for London’ on ’em? It might give an idea which ship is dealing what.”
Thorias looked at the long rows of crates stacked two and three deep on the cold boardwalk. All around them, sailors and station hands briskly worked, never being far from any for an amount of time. His sharp elven hearing suddenly picked up the snatch of a conversation, too soft for Tonks to hear.
“Best dried meats imported from the Continent, Ah tell ye!” Growled a voice from a nearby shop. “Fish, fresh off the boat! Salted pork!”
The doctor looked around, smiling when he saw the sign for a butcher’s shop. He nudged Tonks.
“Or, instead of slaving away like some steam-powered automatons out in the cold,” Thorias explained, “we can go check with the butcher and at other similar shops. There can’t be that many.”
“And what? Just ask?” Tonks replied skeptically.
The doctor bowed slightly, with his best thespian air, “why of course, my good man. After all, my young ward is lost, and she might have sought refuge in such a place.”
“The meanin’ of ‘discreet’ is lost on ya, isn’t it?” Tonks asked irritably.
“No,” Dr. Llwellyn admitted, “but I’ve a clearer understanding of the word ‘imperative’. It’s cold out here. While those poor people languish in Clark’s hold – wherever it is – they are out of the elements. Angela isn’t. If speaking to the grocer – thereby risking a knife in the back – ensures we find her alive instead of frozen dead or worse, then so be it!”
Chapter 9
A gray, cold specter of weather encroached upon the station over the next few hours. Wraith-like clouds paused in their churning approach to slowly, silently regroup into a single, large cloud bank. Once reformed, it resumed its relentless advance; a juggernaut heralded only by an unforgiving cold blast of wind.
Blissfully unaware, the small butcher’s shop sat quietly as it always did on the western side of Port Signal between its tall, metal-shod siblings. The little shop was a small, narrow building dressed in black paint that was cracking and flaking away from the embossed window frames and weathered wood. Two prominent store front windows, braced by a pair of stout wrought iron banded shutters, reflected the cold blue sky and ghostly clouds overhead.
Dr. Llwellyn stopped outside a wide window to the left of the front door. Frost-coated meats of various cuts, shapes and sizes hung on display suspended by rough twine cords. Inside the shop itself, the electric lights glowed, warm and inviting compared to the brisk cold that permeated everything outside. It was the second butcher’s shop – out of the seven shops they had visited – that sat along the western side of Port Signal.
“Fitzcarin,” Thorias said, looking up at the faded name written with brass paint onto the wooden crossbeam over the door. He glanced through the window again, “seems to be well stocked.”
“I’m sure the meat keeps well up here in the cold,” Tonks replied. “Though for the life of me, I can’t see why a young lady would come here instead of a general grocer.”
Thorias scanned the shop’s inventory on display in the window. “I dare say I might. It would be hunger. She’s a lycanthrope, therefore primarily a carnivore. So this would be quite the oasis for her.” He smiled, then gestured to a small sign in the lower right corner of the window. “Ah capital! Jerked beef is on for a special price today. We should get some.”
Opening the door, the two crewmen stepped out of the cold weather. Past the entrance, a gust of warm air greeted them just beyond the doorway. Dr. Llwellyn sighed slightly at the welcoming rush of warmth.
Shutting the door behind them, Tonks glanced aro
und the shop. Worn wooden beams crossed the ceiling, and were secured tight with the intent to support the weight of a second floor above. Around the walls, wrapped and dried sausages and salamis hung in silent display. The most curious to him, however, was the inside of the front windows.
“It’s not a storefront window,” Tonks said after a moment, “it’s a glass box.” He lightly rapped a knuckle against the glass in question and was rewarded with a dull, hollow drumbeat. “Wood with steel rivets holding it all together. Sealed glass, too. Most shops don’t go to all that much trouble.”
“Toughened glass, ta be exact,” replied a Canadian accent from across the room. From behind the long worn, dark wooden counter, a tall and quite bald – save for a memory of hair that encircled the crown of his head – orc looked over at the pair curiously. Carefully he set a butcher’s knife down on the cutting board where he had been dissecting a side of beef. In his bloodstained leather apron, worn white shirt, and dark trousers, he was an imposing figure.
The orc stepped out from behind the counter towards them. Picking up a rough cloth from a nearby brass bar, he wiped his hands clean, then replaced the cloth back where it came from.
He untied, adjusted, and retied his leather apron while watching the two newcomers from beneath his bushy black eyebrows. “Y’see, that glass is sealed, even around a little door off to the side that I use to get in and change things about some. I also have a steam driven refrigeration unit set to help the outside air chill the meat, but blow spent steam into the shop.” The shopkeeper shrugged. “It’s how I keep ’em all cold yet me warm. Ah, but I doubt either of ya want ta hear about that. What brings ya here, eh?”
“You must be the ‘Fitzcarin’ mentioned on the sign, yes?” Thorias asked.
The shopkeeper gave the doctor a smirk, “Aye, I’m ‘Fitzcarin’. One Peter Blackeagle Fitzcarin. Owner and proprietor of this fair place.”
“Ah, well, good day to you, Sirrah.” Thorias replied with a small nod and a smile. The doctor gestured to the case, “we are interested in some jerked beef, if you’ve some to spare?”
“Ya both are in luck. I just got a fresh cut o’ Highland beef in yesterday. Oven-jerked it as soon as it arrived.” Peter walked over to the storefront window, fishing out a key from his pocket.
“Oh? Quite our luck then. A half-pound of jerked beef, if you please, Sirrah?” Thorias asked, while Tonks folded his arms over his chest, watching the entire spectacle with a raised eyebrow.
At the glass wall, Peter Fitzcarin stopped at a small metal framed door – just a few inches shorter than Peter’s six foot tall physique – situated where the tempered glass of the showcase met the wooden shop wall. The door was lined with a trim of black rubber to seal.
Peter slipped the key into an iron lock that bound the door closed. Quickly, he recovered a large mason jar that held a thick knot of dark, oven-dried meat, then shut the case behind him, blocking out the cold air. He motioned for Tonks and Dr. Llwellyn to join him at the counter.
“The half-pound will do us some good while we search,” Thorias told Tonks. “We need to keep our strength up if we’re ever to find her.”
“Right,” Tonks said, quickly understanding the doctor’s intent. “Once we find her, she’ll probably be starving. That’s plenty for us and her.”
Peter, who could not help but overhear the conversation, hesitated a moment before he set the jar down. “Should be about a half-pound there, Sirrah. Anything else?”
Dr. Llwellyn shook his head sadly, “no, thank you, Sirrah. We’ve a cold day ahead. How much?”
The shopkeeper considered the two men a moment, “a threpney bit will do it.” When Thorias handed over the coin, Peter looked at both Tonks and Thorias skeptically. “Beggin’ yer pardon, eh? Ya seem in some kind of distress. Is there a problem?”
Dr. Llwellyn glanced over at Tonks, then toyed with the mason jar in his hands nervously. He gave the shopkeeper a worried look, “Yes, after a fashion.” The doctor cleared his throat, looking for all the world as a nervous, overwrought man uncertain of where to begin. “Perhaps … well, perhaps you could help? I truly hate to even ask, but would you happen to have seen a young lady of late? No more than ten years of age?”
Peter narrowed his eyes suspiciously, “I might’ve. Hard ta say, lots of people come through. Some are young ladies fresh off the ships. Why? Ya know her?”
“Yes!” Thorias said, tension straining his voice. Behind him, Tonks barely repressed a surprised look at the doctor’s display of passionate, though mildly panicked, enthusiasm.
Dr. Llwellyn quickly continued, “That is, if one of the young women you’ve met is indeed her … my ward that is … then yes, I would know her. She’s all of ten. Quite precocious, you see. We are traveling on holiday. One moment she was nearby, looking at a shop window. The next, she’s gone! My colleague here has been ever so kind as to help me look, but there’s been no sign. As I said, she’s all of ten, no more than four feet, six inches tall with long brown hair. She would’ve been dressed for the chill of course, and had an automata servitor with her that she adores. It’s built like a monkey.”
Peter frowned a moment in thought, “A young girl with a monkey?” Then he nodded, as if making up his mind, “I remember a young lady like that just ten minutes ago. It was the servitor that struck me as odd. Ya don’t see a young girl like her running around alone in a place like this, much less with a servitor like that. Conspicuous, you see, especially with the unsavory element that’s here about, eh?”
“Understandable,” Tonks agreed.
Peter continued, “I was a bit worried, so when she bought something to eat, I gave her a little extra. I asked if she needed help, but she said no, and rushed out. She looked quite worried. I’ve been hopin’ she’d stop by again, as I was going to offer her a safe place above the shop I’m not usin’.”
The doctor and the pilot exchanged a hasty glance. Tonks unfolded his arms, leaning on the counter. “Ten minutes? Which way did she run off to?” The pilot asked anxiously.
Peter gestured to his right, “Out the door and then north. She was gone before I could get her attention. North side’s a rough place, what with the warehouses, gangs and all. She seemed to have some sense about her, which is why I’d hoped she’d come back here, and away from there.”
Tonks turned to Thorias, “Ten minutes isn’t that long. If we hurry, we might catch sight of her.”
Dr. Llwellyn reached out and shook the shopkeeper’s hand vigorously, “My friend, you’ve no idea how grateful we are! Thank you, Sirrah!”
The pilot and the doctor raced out of the shop in a mad dash, leaving a confused and concerned Peter Fitzcarin behind them. As the door to the shop closed, Peter untied his apron, hung it on a nearby wooden peg, then with a frown walked over to lock the front door. Quickly, he rotated the wooden sign on the door from ‘open’ to ‘closed’ before vanishing into the back of the shop.
Outside the shop, the doctor and the pilot raced along the cold boardwalk, their boots pounding against the wood. They ran north just as Peter Fitzcarin indicated, towards several looming, dark warehouses set in stark relief against the approaching silver-gray clouds.
At first, the pedestrian traffic was concentrated, thick with knots of people hurrying along the boardwalk in the cold mid-day air. However, the farther north Tonks and Thorias ran, the fewer the shops became, which meant fewer pedestrians congesting the boardwalk.
As they ran past the first of many warehouses, the doctor and pilot’s headlong pace slowed to a trot, then became a walk. Both drank in the sharp cold air with deep gulps, their breath condensing into clouds which blossomed in front of the their faces.
“Damnable thin air,” Thorias complained. “I never have gotten used to it.”
Tonks looked around for anything unusual. Just something that would tell them where Angela had gotten to. Unfortunately, everything around them seemed quite normal. To their right loomed a set of unremarkable large warehouses. Met
al and brass plates, streaked with dark soot stains, were haphazardly bolted to the outer walls. While some organization and thought had obviously gone into the attempt, over time, the end result was haphazard, and at times even visually manic.
The pilot looked off to his left where the docks stretched out into the cold air, away from the boardwalk. Unlike where the Griffin was moored, there were fewer airships here. Three were moored quietly nearby, with a handful of crew bundled against the cold, quickly going about their business.
Tonks glanced over the ships carefully one by one. All three were a good size, at least two thousand six hundred tons apiece by his rough visual estimation, with two of the airships sporting the metal hull plating that was becoming more commonplace with airship construction these days. However it was the last one – the Revenge – that truly captured his attention.
“Odd name for a ship,” he remarked. His eyes trailed over her worn hull and newly replaced wooden planks set low along the traditional ‘waterline’. While he watched, four crew members were hard at work bolting and welding metal plates over the wooden planks to provide protection and stability. “She’s been busy lately, too, having that much damage along her sides,” he said with a suspicious tone.
“Hm?” The doctor replied, looking back down the way they had come along the boardwalk. “Indeed, but do you see Angela anywhere about? Or any sign her of her brass companion?”
The pilot tore his eyes away from the ship, then looked up and down along the boardwalk again. Here and there groups of sailors, no more than two or three at a time, worked among water-stained wooden crates and canvas-covered objects. Once, the brass skeletal nightmare of a mechanized CASS lumbered into view, carrying a crate from a warehouse twenty yards ahead of them out to a waiting cargo ship. Nowhere, though, did he see any sign of a ten-year-old girl or a brass monkey.