by M. K. Hobson
Stanton wrapped his arms around her waist and braced his feet.
Her hands were drawn out of the open passenger compartment to meet the rush of luminescent magic. The flood of power corkscrewed into the stone like a twister in reverse, and her whole being glowed with such a dazzle of light and heat that she wondered if she wasn’t exploding right along with everything around her.
“Higher!” Stanton yelled at Hembry, straining to keep Emily from being pulled from him. His voice sounded strangely thin and distorted, as if her eardrums had ruptured. “Get us higher!”
The Cockatrice was flying straight up now, wings pumping powerfully. As they broke through the first layer of clouds, the flood of magic subsided, then finally broke off entirely with a loud snap. Emily tumbled backward.
Stanton was over her in an instant, holding her down. With one hand he pressed her wrists above her head; the other hand disappeared inside his coat for the misprision blade.
But moments passed. They stared into each other’s eyes, breathing hard. Emily’s body tingled as if it was full of bees, buzzing and stinging. Her hand ached and burned. But she did not become an Aberrancy.
“Damn it, Mr. Stanton,” she said finally, her voice a trembling whisper. “If it had happened, the Exunge would have gotten you, too.”
Stanton took his hand from inside his coat. He pushed himself off of her, throwing himself backward, cursing under his breath.
It was a while before Emily could sit up. Her shoulders ached, her head was splitting, and her hand felt as though it had been plunged into boiling water.
Stanton was watching her. He sat propped against one of the passenger banquettes, a hand pressed over his bleeding shoulder. His cuff and sleeve were soaked brilliant red; his face was corpse pale. She put her hand over her mouth and willed herself not to cry.
“It’s all right, I think the bullet went clean through.” His voice was gentle, as if he was speaking to a frightened animal. “Come here, Emily.”
Emily crawled to where he sat, put her body alongside his. He smelled of blood and sugar; his breathing was shallow and ragged. She put her forehead against his good shoulder, squeezing her eyes shut tight.
Stanton took Emily’s hands. With trembling, blood-slick fingers, he untied the leather that bound her wrists. Then he took her right hand and pulled the glove off of it. Together, they looked at the stone.
The yellowish color was gone. The stone was now completely clear, clear as glass. And in the center of it, like a foul yolk in a bizarre egg, was a perfectly round black blob that pulsed with every beat of Emily’s hard-pounding heart.
Emily did what she could to stop Stanton’s bleeding, using wadded cloth torn from the hem of her petticoat. When she was done, she went to kneel over Rose’s motionless form. Letting her hand rest on Rose’s belly, she was overjoyed to feel breath stirring there.
Grimaldi’s revolvers were still clutched in the girl’s hands; Emily took them and tucked them away. She touched the bruised places on the girl’s face, and the garish welts where the leather had cut into the white flesh of her throat.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Rose,” Emily said, voice breaking. “Honest I didn’t.”
Stanton was silent for a long time.
“Hembry,” he said finally, “give me your jar.”
“What fer?” Hembry took the jar from his back pocket, rolled it toward Stanton. “Got weevils?”
“Of a sort,” Stanton said.
He came to kneel beside Emily. Emily watched as he pushed Rose’s collar aside, revealing the uchawi pod nestled in the dip between her collarbones. Using the lid of the jar as a scoop, he tipped the uchawi pod into the jar and captured the pendant’s chain between the lid and lip. Clamping the lid down tight, Stanton jerked the chain from around Rose’s throat.
The girl gasped, every muscle in her body contracting to board-stiffness. After a moment, she exhaled, her body melting and softening like honey spreading out on a plate.
“Rose Hibble,” Stanton said in her ear, loudly. “Now you are free.”
Then, sitting back, Stanton lifted the jar and watched the uchawi pod settle into the foul brown muck at the bottom.
“Serves him just about right,” Stanton said.
“That’s all it takes?” Emily said.
“If she’d been awake, Grimaldi would have made her claw my eyes out.” He gave the jar an angry shake. “He would have used her until she was dead. Vicious bastard.”
Emily stared at the jar. All that cruelty, all that malice … trapped inside a fragile shell of green glass.
“You’re sure that will hold him?”
“Glass is one of the most powerful magical insulators known,” Stanton said. “He’s in there until he can be released into custody.”
“Or until we kill him,” Emily was aware of a brutal note in her voice. She looked at Stanton. “We could crush the uchawi pod.”
Stanton stared at the jar, his jaw clenched tightly, eyes narrowed with despising. Finally, though, he put the jar down and did not look at it again.
“This is still the United States of America,” he said. “Even Grimaldi is entitled to a trial by jury.” Stanton’s voice became soft. “We are not murderers.”
At that moment, Rose began to stir. She sat up slowly, her hand against her head. Emily helped her sit up, murmuring comfort. Rose looked at Emily, but not for long. Her eyes searched wildly until they found Stanton. She reached for his hands, pressing her lips to them fervently.
“Thank you, Mr. Stanton,” she mumbled against his fingers. “Thank you for setting me free. He was so terrible. So … mean. The things he said to me … in my head, where I couldn’t get away …” Squeezing her eyes shut, she broke down in horrible racking sobs, curling up against him, limp and shuddering.
“I know, Miss Hibble,” Stanton murmured. “I know.”
They came over Philadelphia a little after midday. A wild whoop from Hembry alerted them to their arrival.
“We’re coming up on the exposition grounds … there!” Hembry pointed. Perched on the bank of a slow shining river, the grounds were dominated by two long, low buildings, massive ware house like structures of cast iron and brick and glass, their cupolaed roofs surmounted by hundreds of gold-edged pennants snapping in the afternoon breeze. Broad flagstone causeways gleamed white, lined with saplings and dotted with pavilions. A rail line encircled the whole conurbation like a border drawn around a child’s picture.
Before the larger of the two buildings stretched a smooth flat green. It was packed with people listening to a speech that was being delivered from a bunting-draped platform at the far end.
Hembry locked the wings out flat and glided down over the crowd. Running to the back of the Cockatrice, he fumbled with some canvas ties, unfurling a long hand-lettered banner:
“HANG BABCOCK! HANG THE WHISKEY-RING SCOUNDRELS! JUSTICE FOR ALL!!!”
Cackling to himself, he returned to the pilot’s seat.
“Now let’s really get their attention,” he said. “Hang on!”
He pushed a button. The Cockatrice opened its beak and let out an ear-splitting shriek. The people on the green looked up, scattered, parasols and top hats parting like a fluffy and overdecorated Red Sea. By the time the Cockatrice had swooped back around, the center of the green had cleared. The Cockatrice touched down gently, sleek snake’s tail curling neatly around its long body.
Hembry’s face was triumphant as he popped his head out of the passenger’s compartment, punching a fist in the air.
“Death to tyrants!” he hollered. “Hang the crooks!”
The crowds, which had clustered on either side of the green, were silent. Then there was the sound of a lone cheer. The cry was taken up by dozens, then hundreds, then thousands of people. A huge roar of approval swept over the crowd, punctuated by whoops and whistles. On the distant podium, the man who had been delivering his speech goggled at them, his dark brow unhappily furrowed.
“President U
lysses S. Grant.” Stanton gestured toward the faraway notable. “Congratulations, Hembry. I’d say you’re the only man ever to spit in a president’s eye from five hundred feet away.”
All around the Cockatrice, the crowd pressed in.
Emily was already halfway out of the passenger compartment when she saw that Stanton wasn’t following her. He was speaking to Rose, looking down seriously into her flushed and eager face. The girl beamed up at him, her eyes liquid with adoration.
“… You know, more than anyone, how important this is,” he said as he handed her the glass jar with the uchawi pod in it. She trembled as she took it from him, but once it was in her hands she clutched it to her chest savagely, knuckles white.
“Good girl,” Stanton said. “Hold on to it tight. When the police arrive, you tell them to summon special officers from the Warlock division to take a Manipulator into custody. You don’t let that jar out of your hands until they do. Can you remember that?”
Rose nodded.
“I’ll see to it, I promise.” Rose’s voice was husky. “You can count on me, Mr. Stanton.”
Emily took Stanton’s good arm somewhat impatiently.
“Come on,” she said, pulling him away. “Let’s go find the man we’ve come three thousand miles to see.”
* * *
They were hard-pressed to wade through the throng; people were smothering them with pats on the back and congratulations. But as they made their way farther back they came to a place in the crowd where no one had seen them emerge from the Cockatrice and so were able to move more quickly.
“And here I was getting lectured about farm girls falling in love with me!” Emily muttered as she jogged to keep up with Stanton’s long strides.
“Our timing couldn’t be better,” Stanton said. “The President is scheduled to open each of the pavilions individually after his speech, which means Professor Mirabilis must be waiting for his arrival at the Mantic Pavilion. So all we have to do”—Stanton slid a map out of the back pocket of a man who was rushing past them to get closer to the Cockatrice—“is find it.”
“Disgraceful!” Emily whispered, casting a guilty glance backward. Stanton unfolded the map as they walked.
“Mantic Pavilion.” Stanton pointed up a wide flagstone boulevard lined with ornate gas streetlamps. “There.”
Emily slowed to a halt, awestruck, gaping.
In the dazzling midday sunlight, the Mantic Pavilion gleamed, a fantasy of gold leaf and red paint and black enameled latticework. It was an eye-popping vision, an exotic grotto of power and majesty. The roof, cobalt tiled, put the springtime sky to shame. The roof pillars had ends carved like spitting dragons. Trees of red orchids in huge, glossy black pots lined the way to the two tall doors.
“Yes, it’s designed to make you feel that way.” Stanton placed a finger under her chin to close her mouth. “I think it’s pretty tawdry myself, but there’s no accounting for taste.”
They entered through the tall doors, which were carved of ebony and bound with brass. They strode into the darkness of the cool main hall, the click of their heels on the slick black marble floor echoing as they walked toward a small platform that was decorated with red, white, and blue bunting. Several men were gathered around the platform. They all wore silk top hats and dark frock coats with red orchids in their lapels. They all turned as Emily and Stanton approached, each man’s eyes narrowing by a different degree.
“We must see Professor Mirabilis,” Stanton said breathlessly.
No one said anything. The men stared at Stanton and Emily with knit brows and slack jaws. Emily was suddenly aware of how awful they both looked. She was dusty and tattered and wispy with spider silk, and Stanton was worse, pale and trembling, sleeves and shirt soaked in blood both fresh and dried.
“What’s going on here?” The voice came from within the cluster of dignitaries, and from it stepped a compact young man with a neatly clipped red mustache and a ferret on his shoulder. He was wearing a trim charcoal suit and a green silk tie, and there were many gold rings on his fingers. He was carrying a leather notebook and a stub of pencil. When he saw Stanton, his civil servant’s look of incipient dismissiveness mutated into amusement and surprise.
“Aren’t you … why you are! Dreadnought Stanton!” The young man had an undulating southern accent, heavy as honey. He cast a long lazy look over Stanton’s bloodsoaked form. “Gone back to your true calling?”
“We must see Professor Mirabilis,” Stanton repeated, louder.
“He’s getting ready for the ceremony to open the pavilion. And then … why, he’s ever so busy. Really, I don’t think he’ll be available at all during the exposition. Maybe you can call on him back at the Institute next week—”
“Next week?” Stanton roared. “Tarnham, you idiot, we have to see Mirabilis now! It’s a matter of life and death.”
“Life and death?” Tarnham smirked.
“Life and death,” Emily snarled. She pulled Rose’s revolvers from her pockets and cocked back the hammers. She leveled the guns at Tarnham’s gut, and the smile on his face became brittle.
“Life and death?” It was a rich, robust voice, and it rang bell clear. The clot of dignitaries parted, and a man with longish white hair and a white goatee stepped forward. He wore an exquisitely tailored suit of plum-colored silk and a vivid red waistcoat, across which draped a gold watch chain sparkling with a variety of strange fobs. His keen, appraising eyes made three precise movements: first to Emily’s revolvers, then to her face, then to Stanton’s bloody hands.
“Well, never let it be said that I don’t make myself available when it’s a matter of life and death.”
“Professor Mirabilis,” Stanton sighed. He motioned for Emily to lower the guns, then strode forward and clasped the old man’s hand gratefully, his green eyes brilliant. “You don’t know how good it is to see you.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Senator Stanton
Mirabilis led them into an antechamber, a room designed to serve as the office of the Mantic Pavilion. It was decorated somewhat more simply than the rest of the structure; what was a riot of exotic color outside was kept to a mild commotion within. The walls were a deep rich red, and the pressed-tin ceiling gleamed with gold leaf.
“Have a seat. You both look … overwrought.” Mirabilis reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and wiped away the bloody smear Stanton’s handshake had left on his palm. He gestured to two black leather chairs positioned in front of a black lacquered desk. Emily and Stanton sat gratefully. Mirabilis went to a sideboard where a bottle of liqueur and a platterful of small glasses sat. He poured two glasses of the liqueur and handed one to each of them. Stanton put his liqueur on the desk without a second look, but Emily bolted hers, the sweet taste of oranges and spices trickling down the back of her throat.
“Another?” he asked her. “Perhaps we can trade.” He looked meaningfully at her guns, and Emily felt suddenly embarrassed. Sheepishly, she slid the revolvers over the polished desk. Nodding like a grandparent who’d heard a clever recitation, Mirabilis poured her another glass.
“Now, Mr. Stanton, what’s this all about?” Mirabilis took a seat behind the desk. He carefully retrieved the guns and placed them in a drawer. “You’ll make it quickish, I trust? The President’s due to arrive in fifteen minutes.”
Stanton drew a deep breath, as if to launch into a lengthy explanation. Then he released the breath and shook his head.
“Look at her hand,” Stanton said.
Emily pulled the glove from her right hand and stretched it toward Mirabilis, palm forward. Squinting at the stone, he reached into his waistcoat pocket for his pince-nez. He perched the eyeglasses on his nose and leaned forward to peer more closely.
“Extraordinary,” he said.
“A piece of Native Star,” Stanton said. “A fragment of the Mantic Anastomosis.”
Mirabilis removed the glasses and let them dangle between his fingers. He looked between the two of them.
>
“Tell me everything,” he said.
Fifteen minutes later, Emily and Stanton had told him just enough to make it obvious that they needed more than fifteen minutes. They had not, however, gotten around to telling him about their ride in the Cockatrice when Tarnham thrust his head in through the door, his face harried and harassed. From its perch on his shoulder, the ferret peeked through the door as well, beady eyes glimmering.
“Sir, things are terribly unsettled out here!” It was clear that Tarnham was being jostled from without. “Everyone’s in an uproar about this Cockatrice nonsense.”
“Cockatrice?” Mirabilis looked at Stanton, lifting a bushy white eyebrow. “What Cockatrice?”
Stanton opened his mouth to explain, but Tarnham broke in, exasperated.
“These two set down a Cecil Carpenter Cockatrice on the main green just as neat as you please. Disrupted the whole proceedings! Police everywhere … the whole place is about to come to blows.”
“Mr. Stanton?”
“I simply helped an American citizen exercise his right of free speech.” A smirk lifted the corner of Stanton’s mouth.
But Tarnham, whose head was still poked through the door, assumed a far sourer expression.
“That’s not all, sir. There’s folks outside positively demanding to be let in, not the least of whom is—”
“Senator Argus Stanton!” came a bellowed roar from just outside the door. Tarnham’s face disappeared for a moment, but apparently whatever stalling tactic he’d attempted had failed miserably. A large man pushed through the door, trailing four magnificently upholstered women in his wake.
The senator looked exactly like Stanton would look if he were thirty years older and weighed a hundred pounds more. His large bones were covered with sturdy flesh, and he seemed the sort of fellow that had a tooth-rattling handshake. The women behind him sidled in nervously, as if they were afraid that something might touch them. The one Emily supposed was Euphemia was nearly as tall as Stanton. The oldest woman, certainly Stanton’s mother, was small and sleek as a pit bull.