Her bow mouth curved in a half smile. “What would a growling dog want, besides the opportunity to bite?”
Behind that pretty face and bright curls is a clever mind. There is no doubt she is my daughter. Even if that quick wit and frankness made Alice a bit too blunt sometimes, for all her feminine airs. “Something for himself would be too obvious. He has a niece about your age—from all reports an intelligent girl, but without your advantages.”
“So you will do something for her?”
“And undo it, if he crosses me. The greater the pleasure, the more immediate the pain. My little gift will have to count.”
“Poor girl.”
“No girl matters but you. If you were this young creature, what would you wish for?”
“I do not know her, so that is an impossible question.” Alice fiddled with the pale blue ribbons of her tiny and largely useless bonnet. “I, at the moment, hope my gown is ready for the presentation. The Season will get off to a bad start if it does not fit just right.”
She had dodged the question, but then she had a soft heart. He’d indulged her and kept her close, perhaps too close. “The presentation is the thing for you young lasses, isn’t it?”
Alice’s eyes widened with exasperation. “Of course it is, Papa! Without that, what use is the rest of the Season? No one will look at a girl twice unless she’s kissed the queen’s hand.”
The carriage came to a stop. Alice hitched forward on the seat. “This is the dressmaker’s. I shall leave you here, sir, unless you have further need of my sage advice.”
Keating gave her an indulgent smile. “No, my chick, you’ve quite inspired me.”
The door opened, letting the sun stream into the carriage. The fog was gone now, and the April day was in full bloom. Alice’s maid already stood outside, looking a little windblown from her ride up front with the coachman. Keating watched thoughtfully as the footman handed his daughter down to the street. The Season meant suitors, and Keating would have to watch his only child and heir with the vigilance of a raptor.
The thought filled his gut with ice. I should not worry so much. She is no fool. And yet all fathers worried, because that was the natural order of things.
The carriage took off again, the clop-clop of the horses gaining momentum, as did Keating’s thoughts. Alice had given him a very good idea about what to do for the detective’s niece. The Lord Chamberlain and Queen Victoria herself checked the list of eligible young ladies each Season, and only those who passed muster were presented at Court.
Daughters of scandal-ridden mothers were not received. Unless, of course, the Lord Chamberlain could be persuaded? It would take some finesse—the man was wound tighter than his hopelessly out-of-date cravat—but Keating had the means and a great deal of motivation.
I want Holmes very badly. No, he wanted Athena’s Casket. Maybe to destroy it. Perhaps to keep it for himself.
If he were the only member of the Steam Council with access to the secret of combining magic and machines—even his mind boggled at the possibilities. What was a sop to the Chamberlain compared to that? He’d see every chit in London curtseying at Court if that’s what it took.
The carriage stopped again, this time outside the Steam Makers’ Guild Hall. Keating got out. No sooner had his foot touched the marble steps that swept up to the hall’s monumental double doors than his aide, Mr. Aragon Jackson, exploded from the door in an officious fury. Jackson was tall and thin, with features as sharp as a weasel’s. Although his talents as an inventor were beyond doubt, he thrived in the position of favored lackey.
A flock of other hangers-on trailed after Jackson in a frantic train, somber in their unofficial uniform of dark wool and sharply pressed linen. Keating liked his people tidy, and they knew it.
Jackson pulled out his watch midstride. The case flipped open at the touch of a button, releasing a puff of steam into the air. It was a most impractical trinket. Although it was something to possess the smallest steam engine on record, the heat from the case had entirely ruined the watch pocket of Jackson’s waistcoat, discoloring the fabric and making it sag. It was only a matter of time before the silly thing melted its way clear through to Jackson’s pink flesh.
Jackson snapped it shut again, drawing himself up to greet Keating. “Good afternoon, sir. It’s a pleasure to see you, sir. The members of the Steam Council are gathering. I have your files in hand, if you’ll follow me, sir.”
The aide fell into step beside Keating, the skirts of his coat swirling behind him as he moved to pull open the guild hall door. The entourage followed, a school of hopeful remoras following the shark. Jackson’s steps were quick and eager, his gaze darting ahead to anticipate the steam baron’s every need. Keating both loved and hated the subservience, but despised Jackson. Like a dog trained to do tricks, the man performed with one eye out for possible treats.
Not like my streetkeeper. Striker waited for them on a bench in the hallway, standing only as Keating drew near. He was ambitious, prepared to break bones if Keating asked it of him, but he wasn’t interested in being liked.
“M’lord,” Striker said, touching the brim of a disreputable brown hat that perched on top of his spiky brown hair.
Keating was not a lord, but he had the sense it was all the same to Striker, a matter of indifference more than respect. The stocky thug was a blunt instrument at best, a gutter rat trained to keep Keating’s subjects in line. He wore a long overcoat, covered in bits of metal that resembled an improvised kind of armor. On the streets, where materials for fixing and building were scarce, the metal was a sign of wealth, and Striker was never seen without his portable hoard. The weight of it would have crushed a smaller man. He fell into step behind the others, the coat jangling slightly as he moved.
“What’s the betting on the Reynolds woman, Striker?” Keating asked.
“Odds are in favor of cutting her open for a look inside, m’lord.” It was long rumored that magic users had different organs than the rest of humanity. To be honest, Keating had wondered himself.
They moved as a unit down the broad corridors of the club, the soft carpet muting the sound of their feet. Once, the walls had hung with spears, scimitars, and other exotic weaponry from the Empire’s far-flung holdings, but those had been removed as a precautionary measure. Sometimes these meetings became heated. Now, portraits of shaggy highland cattle glowered moodily from the walls.
When they neared the meeting room, Keating gave the order to Striker to deploy men around the perimeter of the building. No one would be allowed to make an unauthorized exit today. It was going to be an interesting meeting.
Keating checked his pace a degree, a sense of caution cooling his mood. King Coal and a half dozen of his Blue Boys were approaching from the other end of the hall. The enormously fat man reclined in a wheeled chair powered by an engine and steered by three strong retainers. As they drew near, Keating saw the contraption shed a cinder on the carpet, leaving a burned patch of wool like droppings in its wake. King Coal, too fat to look down or turn his head, didn’t notice. A steady stream of sweat poured from the folds and mounds of the man’s pallid flesh, as if the heat of the chair’s engine were melting him like tallow.
If the Blue King was the picture of gluttony, the members of his entourage were the image of want. Striker was ragged, but nothing like the threadbare Blue Boys, their pinched faces and hollow eyes a mask of dull anger as they looked around at the club’s opulence. Perversely, those starvelings not pushing the chair carried food and drink, since the Blue King lived in horror of starvation. He slept in the room next to his kitchens and had been known to fly into a panic at the notion of a missed meal. The man was a brilliant schemer, but in other ways quite mad.
And King Coal’s boilers supplied the worst of London—the docksides and Whitechapel, the criminal dens, tenements, and stinking alleys where even the spiders starved—yet he ruled the area by choice. What does he find there to eat? Keating mused, eyeing the covered dishes the serva
nts carried. His tenants?
They reached the conference room at the same moment. The two barons eyed each other, Keating wondering whether to assert precedence over the disgusting splot of lard or conspicuously flaunt good manners.
King Coal broke the impasse. “I think today would be the day to teach Green a lesson, don’t you agree?” The man’s voice wheezed like a punctured concertina—a high, thin death rattle incongruous with his massive size. “I want that bridge.”
Keating gave a slow shake of his head. “She will not take it quietly.”
“But you have an idea.”
Keating was not sure if he was pleased because they were thinking along the same lines, or annoyed for the exact same reason. “I have an idea. Perhaps we can strike a bargain and deliver justice at the same time.”
His counterpart harrumphed, his gaze flicking greedily around them. “Do tell.”
“Surely you know where they found the supplies for the Harter Engine Company?”
“Which you no doubt have under lock and key?”
“We don’t want them falling into the hands of the rabble. We don’t want them making their own engines, do we?”
King Coal made a wry face. “Definitely not, but I still want my cut of the proceeds.”
“Of course,” Keating said silkily.
A beat passed, in which the two men eyed each other like rival tomcats. The fat man rumbled with dark laughter, and Keating forced a smile to his lips. The tension broke with an almost audible pop.
“Then there will be tasty pickings before the day is out. I do love pickings.” King Coal gave a ghastly, brown-toothed grin as he waved at his three cadaverous servants to roll him through the wide doors to the conference room.
And a merry old soul was he. Involuntarily, Keating shuddered, waiting until the last of the Blue Boys had passed before he led his own retinue into the room.
Chapter Ten
MEMBERSHIP OF THE STEAM COUNCIL, APRIL 1888
MRS. JANE SPICER, SPICER INDUSTRIES, GREEN DISTRICT, MADAM CHAIRWOMAN
MR. JASPER KEATING, KEATING UTILITIES, GOLD DISTRICT
MR. ROBERT “KING COAL” BLOUNT, OLD BLUE GAS AND RAIL, BLUE DISTRICT
MRS. VALERIE CUTTER, CUTTER AND LAMB COMPANY, VIOLET DISTRICT
MR. WILLIAM READING, READING AND BARTELSMAN, SCARLET DISTRICT
MR. BARTHOLOMEW THANE, STAMFORD COKE COMPANY, GRAY DISTRICT
SILENCE GASWORKS, BLACK KINGDOM, REPRESENTED BY MR. FISH
A vast mahogany table filled the room. Only the members of the Steam Council sat at the table, but their assistants crowded behind them, some sitting, some standing, adding their breath to the already stuffy air.
There were no windows, but gaslit sconces ringed the walls. The only decoration was an elaborate model of an airship suspended over the council table, one of the new transcontinental models, placed there as a reminder of what collaboration between the barons could achieve. A nice theory, but Keating thought it served as a goad to competition instead. The big passenger ships were the aeronautical equivalent of a barge. Every baron wanted to be the first to build a sleek and deadly warship to rule the skies. No doubt they all had plans for experimental ships hidden in their desk drawers, waiting for the right opportunity.
Only Keating had pursued the legend of Athena’s Casket—the Holy Grail of air flight—or so he’d thought. Even scholars thought it more myth than fact. Now he looked around the room, wondering if one of his rivals was the thief.
He took his seat. He was the last to arrive, but already he could feel the tension in the room, like some thick, sticky substance clinging to every surface. The Harter affair had put everyone on edge. There was little of the usual premeeting chitchat among the seven principals. The aides, flunkies, and hangers-on were restless, expending their energy in stormy glowers at their neighbors. Only the Violet Queen asked after Alice and the progress of his gallery. The woman never forgot her manners, despite the lines of tension bracketing her mouth.
The chair was a rotating position, and today Green had it. Jane Spicer was one of the two female members of the council, succeeding her late husband to the position. The softest thing about her was the bottle-green silk of her day dress. Otherwise, she ruled the commercial districts of the capital with a fearsome hand.
“Gentlemen. Ladies.” She rapped on the table with her knuckles, reminding Keating of a stern governess. What little conversation there was dribbled to a halt, stemmed by the harsh grating of her voice. If that tone could have been distilled and used as a weapon, the Empire would have the entire globe shaking in its boots. “We have a long agenda, so I suggest we begin.”
Keating listened with half an ear to what came next—an unnecessary roll call, the adoption of past minutes, and so on. He looked around the table. The Violet Queen, decked out in frilly violet ruffles, was as feminine as Green was not and was completely prepared to use that beauty when it suited her. Next to her sat Scarlet, an athletic, black-haired man with piercing dark eyes. Neither of these two worried Keating much—they were smaller players in the game, dangerous only if they forgot their self-interest long enough to work together, and that was unlikely. Keating and Blount were both too good at sowing dissent.
The next two did interest him, but for different reasons. Silence Gasworks was an enigma, operating in the underground. It was believed that a couple ruled the Black Kingdom, but no one was entirely sure. They typically sent a single representative—and not always the same one—who sat and listened, voted if required, and volunteered nothing. Today it was a gray-bearded man in a kind of cassock who had identified himself as Mr. Fish. Indeed, he contributed as much as if he had floated up on the Thames’s polluted banks, belly to the air.
Keating would have been insulted by the apparition and thrown the lone man out, except he dared not. The underground was as large as the whole of London, and no one was sure how much power the Black Kingdom actually had. So Mr. Fish sat, silent, solitary, and unmolested.
The final member of the council was the Gray King, who occupied a smallish territory on Green’s northern borders. His people were outdoor sporting types with red faces and bushy whiskers who no doubt kept hounds and drank vats of good amber ale for breakfast. Gray was a good businessman and a nice enough fellow, in the fine old tradition of English country squires. Unfortunately, he had made some serious mistakes for which he was about to atone. That included trusting his peers.
Green’s shardlike voice fell silent, letting their ears rest a beat before launching into the new business of the agenda.
“Before we begin, I have something to add regarding the division of supply areas,” Keating said, modulating his own tone between firm and utterly reasonable. “The junction of the Blue, Green, and Gold pipelines at Blackfriars Bridge is proving inconvenient.”
“How so?” Green asked suspiciously.
“Simplification. Our gas and steam and rail holdings don’t align. There are householders in the area who pay you for their heat, me for gas, and then board a Blue train to go to their workplace. That fails to promote loyalty with our client base, which is something we all aspire to.” Sometimes that loyalty was inspired the end of a streetkeeper’s fist, but that was mere detail. “I propose Green retreat north of Fleet and leave the bridge as a clean divider between Blue and Gold territories.”
The woman huffed. “I think not. That area of town provides good revenue, as you well know. And furthermore, there is a toll on that bridge that is currently split three ways. You mean to cut me out.”
“Surely you are mistaken, madam.” She wasn’t, and they both knew it, but Keating plowed on. “The toll program has been purely experimental. We agreed not to institute charges that would impair healthy commerce in London. For a flat fee, anyone can buy a monthly pass and avoid individual tolls altogether. It only makes sense. Merchants have to move their wares. Farmers must get their goods to market. Fishermen …”
“Yes, yes, spare me the litany.” She waved his words as
ide. “Your words mean nothing. The meaning is in the money.”
She was right. Merchants paid not only for heat and light, but also to move their goods via railways, docks, and now bridges. The barons’ stranglehold on the areas their companies served was all but complete. Keating’s gaze flicked up to the sour-faced men standing behind Mrs. Spicer. They looked like clerks, doomed to a future of high desks and cold lunches. He knew for a fact she bled her businessmen of money before any of them got enough capital together to challenge her. Not a bad plan, but she didn’t have the wits to be subtle about it. It would have worked better if she’d made them think handing over their fortunes was their own idea.
“Move your area of influence north,” King Coal wheezed. “That will compensate you most handsomely.”
She wasn’t impressed. “I have a nonexpansion treaty with Gray.”
“Perhaps a concession, then,” Keating suggested smoothly. “You promised not to take him over if we left your southern borders alone. Give us your share of the bridge, and we’ll let you expand north.”
Gray jumped to his feet. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Indeed,” said Green, sitting back in her chair. Yet she did not relax. Every angle of her body begged for an excuse to pounce on this opportunity.
Keating meant to give her that. He rose more slowly, letting his fingertips rest on the mahogany surface of the table. “It means that inquiries have revealed storehouses of machine parts within Gray’s borders. Parts that any competent mechanic could use to construct his own boilers, gas burners, or batteries. Parts smuggled from unlicensed factories in the north and used in the workshops of the Harter Engine Company.”
Green rose, a hungry look on her square face. “That contravenes the first article of the Steam Council’s code of conduct. ‘No one shall promote or enable the general populace to generate their own power or means of locomotion without the express approval of all.’”
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