by Ed Greenwood
In the wake of the crash, amid the drifting smoke, Marlshrike reeled, sobbing for breath. He’d been driven back across the room, half-deafened, and he hurt—God, he hurt; his collarbone must be broken and perhaps a rib or two, and his chest would be a mass of yellow-brown bruises—but he was alive. Thanks to the now-dented chest plate beneath his clothes.
He gave Pauncefoot a smile that fell almost immediately into a sneer. “A single-shot weapon, I perceive. How unfortunate for you.”
“Someday, Marlshrike, your luck will run out,” the twister spat.
“Perhaps. Yet I work hard to make my own luck, in the main. Unlike, say, a moneylender.”
Marlshrike took out his pistol; took a careful step closer to the desk, wincing at the pain that flared with that movement; and told Pauncefoot pleasantly, “You’re going to tell me where, in this house, you’re hiding all your money.”
“You,” the twister replied, in similarly mock-friendly tones, “can go to hell.”
“Undoubtedly,” Marlshrike smiled. “In the meantime, if you would be so kind?”
“I don’t think so,” Pauncefoot murmured.
Marlshrike fired.
He’d spent quite some time practicing, in good light and bad, and was gratified to observe that he hit what he was aiming at; Pauncefoot shrieked.
And wrung a hand that was now spurting blood and had one less finger.
“No?” Marlshrike inquired politely, and after waiting for what he deemed was long enough, fired again.
Pauncefoot roared in agony and fell heavily back into his chair, crying like a child. Yet when Marlshrike asked again, he shook his head violently—so Marlshrike let him have another bullet. Three fingers gone.
Pauncefoot’s sobs died down somewhat, and Marlshrike became aware of a scratching at the front, official door of the room. He put a swift bullet in each of Pauncefoot’s shoulders so the moneylender couldn’t lift his arms, then approached the door cautiously, looking for traps and peering back at the desk several times to make sure the twister wasn’t trying to trigger anything.
The scratching was patient, insistent, and down at floor level. Marlshrike opened the door with infinite caution, peered out and down—and found himself staring at two of his animated hands. The mismatched pair trundled forward on their fingertips, and as he ushered them into the room, a third appeared, following them in.
Marlshrike sent them to the desk to climb the twister’s body and strangle him. By the time he was done reloading, it was done. He set them to clambering up the shelves of the room and plucking books off, in case any were false or a safe or other hiding place was hidden behind them.
While he sought out more likely hiding places. The desk drawers and any secret drawers behind them—nothing, and he was good at finding even the cleverest secret doors. A cigar box held a handful of everyday coins and a cigar cutter, but the desk was otherwise empty. Its legs were certainly large enough to encompass large cavities, but try as he might, he could find no indication that they were anything other than solid …
By then, an impressive heap of books had built up on the floor, and he hastened to check under the room’s large and ornate carpet while he still could. He was rewarded with a stone trapdoor that dropped down into a sewer far below. The underside of the beveled stone block that formed the trap had a sliding slate plate. It proved to close off a cavity that held dies for the stamping of gold sovereigns … but not a coin or any gold.
It wasn’t until he tried to shift the desk that he realized it shouldn’t be that heavy; it was as unmoving as stone. Taking out his knife, he scratched one edge of the thick slab that formed its top—and saw the glint of gold. Under the blotter, the sheen of woodgrain was painted on so skillfully—a cathedral painter, no doubt, and quite likely violently dead for his troubles—that he couldn’t tell it was false even with his nose touching it.
The entire top of the desk was a single poured slab of gold.
Soft, unwieldy, and damnably heavy. With a sigh, Marlshrike headed for Pauncefoot’s stables. It had been years since he’d harnessed his own horses to a coach, but no doubt he could manage it.
If, that is, his obediently murderous hands hadn’t been at the horses …
* * *
“The hour is late,” Uncle observed, decanter in hand. “Something to drink?”
“Oh, hell, yes,” one of his three visitors—the ginger-whiskered lord known in the Order as “Old Horsley”—snarled. “You still have some of that superb Austrian?”
“Horse piss,” another of the trio muttered, causing the third lord to snort in amusement.
The first of the three Ancient Order leaders turned and observed coldly, “Quentin, some folk lack any taste at all. It’s breeding as does it—or lack of same.”
“My lord, pray remember that here and now I am ‘Cousin Quillan’ and compose yourself. Or, rather, save your seething for she who so richly deserves it.”
“Ah,” Uncle observed, pouring and passing out glasses. “So this is about Lady Roodcannon. I confess myself less than surprised.”
“The woman’s a menace! As bad as the Dowager Duchess!”
“Worse,” the third lord, Redhaired Nephew, said grimly. “She’s full of energy, she’s doing things and seeing things and still able to think past her prejudices—and she’s here.”
“Her most recent deeds,” Cousin Quillan announced, as if speaking in Parliament, “are dangerous. Among many smaller things, the egregious blowing up of Tempest and the keeping of Marlshrike to herself. My lords, they warn us of her true tyranny; by such bold actions, she controls matters, and not the Order. Not only is she being too forward, acting in a manner that demands responses from the beagles and the agents of the Crown and increasingly making us untrustworthy villains in the eyes of the rabble, but she’s behaving as if she is Empress and we are but lackeys. When has our approval been sought? Where has our part been in this decision making? I hear talk of Tempest’s Silent Man being sent to slay targets of her choosing—how soon will it be ere such a target is one of us?”
“Eloquently put,” Uncle commented. “I find I cannot disagree.” He waved them all to chairs and sipped unhurriedly from his own glass. “And so, my lords? You’ve crossed half London on a wet night to sample my decanters, and…?”
“Get your support for what we’ve decided,” Old Horsley growled. “We’re recommending she be eliminated.”
Uncle assumed his best pained expression. If he didn’t act reluctant, they would smell a proverbial large rat, and very swiftly. Inwardly, of course, he was delighted. This saved him the time and trouble of delicately approaching each of them to settle on these very same views. He must “allow” himself to be convinced.
He sat down in his favorite chair, shaking his head. “Serious dispute—as opposed to reasoned debate—among us is the true peril, the evil I promised myself long ago that I would fight against whenever and wherever I detected the slightest whiff of it. It remains our greatest danger, the one weakness that could destroy the Order. And yet … and yet I find myself in vigorous and firm accord with Cousin Quillan’s conclusions. The lady is deciding things as if she were Queen, or Empress, not one vote among a dozen. Her deeds are making we of the Tentacles more prominent and therefore a more pressing problem for the authorities, who will therefore feel justified in taking more drastic actions, when for years they have bumbled along largely doing nothing and ignoring us, in hopes we’ll go away. Or do exactly what she threatens to plunge us into: destroying ourselves from within. And the lady is neither stupid nor unaware of consequences. She has been warned. This is clear defiance on her part, sirs.”
He looked from one man to the next.
“And yet,” he sighed, “and yet…”
“And yet what, Uncle?” Old Horsley growled. “Now you’re playing the very beagles you sneer at, turtling and hoping the problem will go away so you needn’t take a stand and do anything. While that woman goes on ‘doing’ day in and day out, making
things worse for us all. The Order, the beagles, the Crown, those in Parliament working to make small and necessary changes … we all suffer.”
Uncle nodded and sat watching his own fingertips as they traced the carved pattern in the arm of his chair. “You are very convincing, Horsley.”
He sighed, then sat forward and spoke more briskly. “So,” he asked, “what shall we do about this matter? One foot wrong, and it will mean disaster. The Order will be torn apart by any protracted war between Lady Roodcannon and the rest of us.”
The three eyed him doubtfully.
“Well,” began Redhaired Nephew, “that’s why we came to you, instead of just…”
“Doing something behind my back?” Uncle asked quietly. Then he shrugged. “Go on.”
“We thought you’d plan something better than we could,” said Cousin Quillan.
Uncle half smiled. “Perhaps. Let me think…”
He leaned back in his chair and pretended to ponder.
In truth, all he was really doing was deciding how much of his long-refined plans to tell them at this point, so none of them would think it prudent to start entertaining notions too … independent.
OCTEMBER 13
The masked, top-hatted figure on the far side of the beaded curtain was waiting for her answer. His patience would not be infinite. As if to remind her of that, he shifted slightly, and the row of diamonds that ran down the front of his top hat caught the light, winking and sparkling for an instant. Then he was a dark, motionless greatcoated bulk once more. Waiting.
“It’s not yet the right time to strike against the Prince Royal,” Lady Constance Roodcannon told him smoothly, watching his eyes follow her movements. The elegant gown she wore left her smooth, ivory-hued shoulders and arms bare and flirted with showing the world a little more. He was trying to enjoy her display.
Lady Roodcannon reminded herself that her visitor’s vertical column of large diamonds set in diamond-shaped silver settings weren’t mere adornment, they were trophies. Each one marked a rich and important lord slain.
“Right now,” she added lightly, “the others who lead the Ancient Order are deciding they’ve had enough of me, and having my child without me will suit them just fine, so it’s time to move against me.”
“Your child is elsewhere and safe, of course.”
“Of course. The children they’ll find—the first, and several more beyond that first one—are there for anyone too inquisitive to find. They look like my son, and each of them has been reared to believe they are my son, but…”
She shrugged and smiled.
“Life is so regrettably full of deceit,” the figure beyond the curtain murmured, sounding amused.
“Indeed. So for the time being, if you see to the safety of Marlshrike, I’ll take care of those who believe they command the Tentacles.”
“And Lord Tempest? What of him?”
“We need just one of the two tinkerers to survive, and none of us can keep him safe. Not the way he behaves.”
“I am inclined to agree with you,” the masked man said dryly. “I shall endeavor to safeguard Marlshrike.”
“Let him gain the resources he needs to field his army of assassins but think he’s done it himself, and he’ll keep to his den cackling gleefully and working himself to exhaustion—as safe as anyone can make him.”
“And what of our safety—and that of everyone else in London—with his assassins on the prowl?”
“As to that, we at least should be able to guard ourselves adequately, if we intercept his assassins just long enough to introduce these into their footwear. Grimstone, the box.”
Grimstone stepped forward from behind her, holding forth a box. He swung its lid up to display its contents: a dozen small metal gewgaws. They looked like jewelry that’s been trodden on and made dirty by the streets.
“And these are?”
“You might call them ‘echo reflectors.’ The same etheric telegraphy by which Marlshrike controls the Iron Assassin from afar can be used to send out signals—like the tolling of a church bell—that can bounce back from these.”
“So we can track the movements of anyone who has one of these in his boots.”
“We can.” Lady Roodcannon gave the man beyond the curtain a wide smile and said pleasantly, “And anyone who does business with me would do well to remember that I have far more surprises than these up my sleeves.”
“I’ve never doubted that,” her masked visitor replied in like tones, “and my memory is, I’m told, very good.”
He tipped his diamond-studded hat to her and departed.
Grimstone hurriedly closed the box, set it down on the floor, and vanished swiftly through a side door.
Lady Roodcannon stood as still as a statue and enjoyed the solitude. It was rare enough, these days, and it gave her the opportunity to really think.
She was almost lost in her thoughts some minutes later, when Grimstone reappeared to report, “He went straight out to the street, doing nothing suspicious that I could see, and tarrying nowhere. I’ve locked and secured the house.”
Lady Roodcannon threw back her head and laughed delightedly, the full-throated gusto that so few women permitted themselves. “Ah, but I’m enjoying this.”
She spread her arms, shook out her hair, and purred, “Get me a sherry, Grimstone. The bottle with the rubies in it. And pour yourself a glass; I feel in a celebratory mood.”
He did so, and as he handed her a full glass, ran his fingertips up one bared arm in a caress.
With lightning speed she stepped back and drew a tiny derringer-like pistol from its holster low down in her décolletage.
“Dare that again,” she told him coldly, “and I’ll blow your brains out. I decide and I initiate. Every time. Any man who neglects to respect that doesn’t continue to live.”
“I—I—I’m sorry, Lady Roodcannon,” Grimstone apologized hastily, going to his knees. “Truly. I shouldn’t have presumed…”
“Indeed. Yet seeing as you have…”
She drained her glass in one long pull, set it down on the nearest sidetable, undid her gown—it was a simple matter of flipping the row of metal clasps that ran all up one hip and the flank above—and stepped forward, letting its folds fall away as she towered over the man on his knees. “You may pleasure me. From down there.”
* * *
A peacock shrieked suddenly outside, and the Dowager Duchess sighed and went to slam the window. Oh yes, this was the one with the peacocks.
She had several castles in this country, and a handful more scattered across the Continent, and all of them had balconies and windows overlooking extensive gardens. Only this one had gardens where peacocks screamed.
The birds had no sense of occasion. Such an important message, and it needed her full attention.
She read it over again to make sure there’d been no mistakes made when decoding it. There had not. The encoding meant missives could be sent as everyday letters, reaching her by mail carried on a regular airship run across the Channel. Venetta had done the decoding, writing out the true message in her small, neat hand under the swashbuckling scrawl of Blücker’s bold quill. Her maid might be entirely too independent-minded and snippy, but the girl was capable.
And the message rang true; this was certainly Blücker’s writing. Of events in London that were far more dramatic than she’d grown used to reading about in these latter months. The Ancient Order of Tentacles had seized control of the Iron Assassin, but the automaton had been driven off in its first attempt to kill the Prince Royal, and there was now disagreement and dispute within the Order over the uses to which the Iron Assassin has been put.
She rang for Venetta. It was time for a little raging.
* * *
The ring of the bell was always imperious, but sometimes it was more imperious than most. Venetta knew what was coming. So she scratched the itch on her nose, yawned and stretched, and prepared herself for her expected role as she hastened up the stairs.
>
Well, as prepared as one could be without earplugs and infinite patience.
The Duchess let her get to the center of the room and standing primly to attention before starting to screech.
“Vat is wrong viss these people?” The old noblewoman marched across the room, clawing the air in frustration. “Allvays the same! Yu giff them a leetle power, und they think themselves gods! It iss the curse of zis modern age, I tell yu! Jumped-up farmers und hod carriers empowered viss clockvurk this und steam-dreeven that, und suddenly zay are all leetle emperors!”
She reached the wall and the grand furniture lined up along it and spun about, leveling one bony finger at Venetta. “Yu vill go to Eeengland undt find every Order member and speak viss them privately. Yu vill tell them all I haff married the Markgraf Hereszen, und—”
“But—but he’s dead!”
“I know zat, yu stupid girl! Who do yu think poisoned him, hey? But zo long as he lies undiscovered in our crypt here, the vurld thinks him alive! Now, heed me! Yu vill tell them all I haff married the Markgraf Hereszen, und tell them zay are to tell no one this, no one at all!”
“Very good, your grace.”
“I am not finished yet, yu! Yu vill tell them all this, und then yu vill listen and vatch, to see who tells who, and yu will take careful note uff whose tongue wags this spurious secret—und yu vill bring back that list to me, quickly. They vill be the first I haff killed. Now go get a coat, my traveling writing box, vhatever monies yu need, und go.”
“But, your grace! Your tea! And your supper!”
“I am not such a useless old cow, despite what yu no doubt think, that I cannot find things in a kitchen! And if I cannot, vell, there are cooks enough down there that I can haff vipped! Go!”
She would, too, Venetta reflected, rising from her deep curtsy to hasten out of the room and down the hall. Have people whipped, that is. As petty, spiteful, and lazy as ever, Alice Louisa Hanover, the Dowager Duchess of the Empire, loved to “haff people vipped” almost as much as she enjoyed tirades—and these days, any excuse would do.