The Traitor and the Thief

by Gareth Ward

  CHAPTER 16

  HOUSE OF A THOUSAND DEATHS

  Sin tramped to the shooting range, Zonda at his side. They were dressed in ribbed leather suits, reinforced with oval brassanium panels. On their heads they sported padded flying helmets and ironglass safety goggles. The timetable gave no details about the next lesson but whatever it was, they needed protection for it.

  “So what was on that note Captain Creepy gave you?” asked Zonda.

  “It was just some scrap of old paper; it didn’t make any sense.”

  Zonda held out a gloved hand. “Can I see?”

  “Nah, I chucked it. Load of old rubbish,” lied Sin.

  “And the bit of wood, what was with that?”

  Sin shrugged, the rigid leather suit making the gesture awkward. “Who knows? He’s as barmy as the rest of them.”

  “You shouldn’t say that. You know what it means?” said Zonda, wagging a finger.

  “It means he’s a nutter.”

  “Yes, but it comes from people implying you’re as nutty as Nimrod Barm.”

  Sin flexed his hands. They’d been issued brand-new leather gloves and the stiff hide rubbed against his skin. “That don’t make no sense. The man’s a genius.”

  “It’s a fine line between genius and insanity. Many are keen to suggest Nimrod’s on the wrong side of it.”

  Sin remembered the previous evening, trapped in the boiler room, when he’d called the professor barmy. No wonder Nimrod had snapped at him. His swarthy complexion reddened and suddenly the leather suit felt as rough and prickly as the gloves.

  They walked on in silence, Sin contemplating the note from Noir. It had been torn from a larger letter but Sin was certain it was about him.

  The boy is lost to us, escaped and vanished. Perhaps we were too hard. He was wont to be unruly, and if you spare the rod you spoil the child. I will show you what he has done to my cane on your next visit. Let us hope he is soon found. I pray for his soul. Sister S Alldread.

  Sin scuffed his boots through the dirt. Why did Noir have the note and what was his purpose in revealing it? There was more going on here than Sin understood. He was a tiny cog in a complex machine, being turned and twisted by the biting teeth of bigger, more powerful gears.

  * * *

  Staff MacKigh waited for the candidates in front of a foreboding mansion situated in a wooded clearing at the edge of the steamrifle range. With his booted feet planted firmly apart and his barrel chest thrust forwards, his stern military bearing was only somewhat marred by the pink taffeta dinner dress he wore. “Welcome, candidates. Today you will enter the house of a thousand deaths where no one has ever come out alive.”

  The candidates exchanged fearful glances.

  MacKigh smiled. “Och, let me rephrase that. No one has ever come out alive on their first attempt. You will enter in teams of two or three, retrieve a briefcase from the library and make your exit. Each team must contain at least one member from each wing. Choose your teams now, and choose wisely. Your life depends on it.”

  “Your brains, my good looks, what’s the worst that could happen?” said Sin to Zonda.

  “You do remember nearly being killed by a homicidal Battler Boy the last time you said that?”

  “Nearly killed, not actually killed.” Sin lightly punched an armoured plate on her arm. “Besides, that’s why we’re wearing all this gear.”

  Velvet stepped between Sin and Zonda, putting her arms around their shoulders. “So team, what’s the plan?”

  “I don’t recall inviting you to join us,” said Zonda.

  “You didn’t, but no hard feelings, I’m letting you join my team anyway,” said Velvet.

  Sin surveyed the other candidates who were already sorting themselves into groups. “Don’t seem like we’ve got much choice, Zon.”

  Velvet smiled but her eyes were tinged with hurt. “Great, we can be like the three steam-musketeers.”

  “Personally, I don’t find a trio of sword-wielding Fromagians that appealing,” said Zonda.

  “Unus pro omnibus, omnes pro uno,” said Velvet.

  “One for all and all for one,” said Sin.

  Both girls turned to him in surprise.

  Sin shrugged. “Fixer used to say it, din’ he.”

  “Maggot, front and centre with your team,” barked MacKigh.

  Claude Maggot, Skinner Grundy and Ethel Hope shuffled to join MacKigh who led them up three broad stone steps to the mansion’s wide front door. “Goggles on. You have twenty minutes. Go.”

  Claude heaved on the iron doorhandle and the door swung open. A giant padded mallet arced down from the ceiling and thudded into his torso. He flew backwards down the steps, crunching onto the ground in a battered heap. “COG Maggot, you are dead. COGs Grundy and Hope, you may continue,” said MacKigh, ignoring Maggot’s groans.

  As the afternoon wore on, the teams returned in various states of disarray and, according to MacKigh, all dead. Jimmy and Trixie had been dispatched to the sick bay with possible cracked ribs and Ada nursed a bloody nose.

  “COG Chubb, you’re up,” said MacKigh.

  “I hope you won’t treat us unfairly because of the dress,” said Zonda.

  “Aye, lassie, it crossed my mind. Although to be honest, I quite like it.”

  They approached the front door. Sin held out an arm, barring the way. “Follow me. I have an idea.”

  As he led them around to the side of the house, Velvet put her hand on Zonda’s shoulder. “It’s just like the good old days. You and me playing at secret missions while the parents talk business.”

  “I don’t remember them being that good,” said Zonda. “You were the vivacious daring spy and I was the dowdy lackey who was destined to die in some horrible manner while you saved the day.”

  Velvet smiled. “That’s right. Vice-Marshal Von Darque and Corporal Chubbs. Fun times.”

  Sin climbed some steps to a set of patio doors. “No one said we had to go in the front.” He opened a tool pouch on his belt and using a flat-bladed file jemmied the lock. The doors swung open and, wary of traps, Sin stole inside. In the centre of the drawing room a charred sofa and armchairs nestled around a circular Persian rug. Opposite the sofa a fire flickered in a marble-mantled fireplace. Sin ran his hand over the sofa’s wooden arm. The sooty residue clung to his gloves.

  Velvet stepped onto the rug and an ominous click cut the air.

  “Take cover,” shouted Sin as a deep rumble built in the chimneybreast. He pushed Zonda behind the sofa and stretched for Velvet but she stood tantalisingly out of reach.

  A fireball erupted from the fireplace and surged into the room. Sin dived on top of Zonda, flames licking across his back, the heat intense even through the protective leather suit. Sin pressed tighter to Zonda, squeezing into the pocket of safety created by the sofa. Velvet hurtled overhead, trailing smoke behind her as she hit the floor and rolled. With a whoosh the flames died, leaving a soot cloud in their place. Sin disentangled himself from Zonda and scrambled towards Velvet. Patting at the smouldering patches on her suit, Sin extinguished the last of the hot embers.

  MacKigh appeared. “COG Von Darque, you are toast. Return tay the others.” He inspected Sin and Zonda. “COG Chubb and COG Sin, you may continue.”

  Velvet looked at Sin, a wounded expression on her face. “What happened to one for all?”

  “I tried to reach you,” said Sin.

  “Not hard enough,” answered Velvet and walked out of the patio doors.

  Had he tried hard enough or had he just saved himself? If he’d helped Velvet, they’d probably both be dead and what was the point in that? But deep down he suspected if it had been Zonda on the rug, things may have played out differently.

  With the caution of someone who’d nearly been barbecued, Sin opened the drawing room door and eased into the passage beyond. Testing the floorboards with each step, he progressed to a panelled door marked Library and nudged it open. The library walls were the height of the mansion. Dark
teak bookshelves inset with chemlights climbed to the ceiling, where the room’s only natural light filtered through a glazed dome skylight. Polished wood ladders ran on brass tracks around the shelves. At the room’s centre a leather briefcase rested on a sturdy oak table.

  “Does this seem a bit too easy?” said Sin.

  “We were nearly burned to a crisp.”

  “Nearly, but not actually.” Sin dropped to one knee and scanned the floor. “House of a thousand deaths and we’ve met one. Even I can do that maths.”

  They crept into the room, wary of potential threats. There were no hiding places for assailants and although the room had a fireplace, the furniture bore no signs of charring.

  “So what do you think?” said Zonda.

  “There are no windows and only one way out. If someone blocks that door, we’re trapped.”

  “May as well get it over with then,” said Zonda and reached for the briefcase.

  “No. Wait,” said Sin, and tilted the table. As the briefcase slid off the edge, he flipped the table onto its side and pulled Zonda down behind it. They waited, their bodies pushed against the heavy oak barrier, their faces inches apart. Sin stared into Zonda’s eyes, his heart pounding.

  Zonda eased her face closer to Sin so their lips nearly touched. “What now?”

  The strawberry scent of Zonda’s hair filled Sin’s nose. He swallowed and turned his head away. “Nothing, I guess.” He pushed himself up and contemplated the briefcase. “I was expecting something far more exciting to happen.”

  “Me too,” said Zonda, her shoulders slumping. She took the briefcase and walked towards the door. “That was sooo disappointarooney.”

  A tapping sound overhead caught Sin’s attention. A raven had landed on the ironglass skylight. The bird squawked and then Sin saw it. At the top of a ladder, almost hidden from view, hung a leather briefcase identical to the one in Zonda’s hand.

  “It’s a trap. Chuck it away,” shouted Sin.

  Zonda hurled the briefcase into the corridor. It exploded in a flash of flame, showering her with red paint.

  Time slowed. A hail of paint pellets spun towards Sin. He twisted and dropped behind the table. The wood shuddered, an onslaught of shot splattering the oak.

  MacKigh marched into the room. “COG Chubb, you are dead. COG Sin, you are dea–” MacKigh paused and straightened his dress. Dribbles of paint ran down the table but Sin’s leather suit remained untouched. “COG Sin, you may continue.”

  Mindful of further traps, Sin climbed the ladder to the other briefcase. Inside were stacks of neatly bound paperwork. He was about to descend when he noticed a small window in the skylight. If he could reach it, he could make his escape and avoid the corridor, which was an obvious choke point and no doubt contained more surprises.

  He raised the case’s leather handle to his mouth and gripped it in his teeth. The ledge at the base of the dome was just wide enough for his fingers. He curled them over the brickwork and kicked away from the ladder. Inch by inch, he worked his hands along the ledge, trying not to think about the hard library floor forty feet below. Forearms burning and injured shoulder aching, he hauled himself through the skylight. The fresh air smelled good and he was glad to be free of the confines of the house. At the roof’s parapet he found a sturdy-looking iron drainpipe and gave it an experimental tug. He knew from experience that downspouts could peel away from the walls leaving you awkwardly suspended, but this one seemed firm enough. Once again, he gripped the briefcase’s handle in his mouth and, monkey-like, shimmied down the drainpipe.

  He dropped the last six feet to the ground and sprinted towards the woods, wary of any final deadly surprises. The broad trunk of an elm offered refuge while he took stock. No one had followed him and ahead he could see the bright pink of MacKigh’s dress. He broke from cover and approached the instructor. “COG Sin, mission accomplished, Staff,” he said and handed MacKigh the briefcase.

  “And was it worth it?” said MacKigh.

  Confused, Sin glanced over to Zonda.

  MacKigh prodded him in the chest. “She canae help you, she’s dead. Was her life a fair exchange for what’s in the case?”

  “I don’t know, Staff. I’ve not checked,” said Sin.

  “Nae, you dinnae know. Nay one of you thought to ask why we needed the case.” MacKigh pulled open the briefcase’s leather flap and upended it. Out spilled the papers. The string on one of the bundles broke as it hit the ground scattering a jumble of old dinner menus across the dirt. “COG missions are dangerous. You need to make damn sure you know why you’re doing them.” MacKigh motioned in the direction of the palace. “The Committee are concerned with the big picture. To them missions have acceptable losses. But for you, returning without colleagues, whatever you’ve achieved, is ne’er worth it.”

  MacKigh’s eyes glazed over and for a long while he stared into the distance. Nobody broke the silence.

  CHAPTER 17

  PHOTO SHOOT

  The quiet murmur of Nimrod and Zonda pouring over plans for the camera-nocturna was punctuated by the plink of bubbles escaping fermenting chemicals. The technical discussion was beyond Sin so he scanned the gardens through the telescope. Velvet loomed large in the eyepiece and he watched her walk to the fountain, the setting sun casting her long shadow across the water. Sin focused on her face and marvelled at how close she appeared. He now knew that a series of lenses in the brass tube magnified the image, but Noir was wrong – understanding the science didn’t make it any less magical.

  Velvet looked up. Her ice-blue eyes filled Sin’s vision. He jolted back, as if, along with the light, the telescope had magnified the odd spiky feeling she gave him. He turned around guiltily but Nimrod and Zonda were still deep in conversation.

  “This is good,” said Nimrod, “very good. You designed it yourself?”

  Zonda squirmed with pride. “Yes, sir.”

  Sin rubbed his hands together, his palms tingling. “So can we make it?”

  The magnifying monocle hanging in front of Nimrod’s face created a giant flickering eye. “We absolutely must. It’s brilliant. I think a shopping trip is in order.” He pulled a multifaceted brass watch from his pocket and turned several of the protruding buttons. “I’ve preparations to make. Meet me back here in an hour. We’re going into town.”

  “Shouldn’t we get permission from the Major?” asked Sin.

  Nimrod raised his eyebrows. “Probably. Although as head of COG we’ll just take it as read that I’m allowed. Carpe diem, young man, carpe diem.”

  Sin’s brow furrowed.

  “Seize the day,” translated Zonda.

  * * *

  An hour later they headed to the stables, only half of which was a home for horses, the remainder given over to mekanikal beasts. There were polished hansom cabs with shiny mekanika steeds between the yokes, sleek traction cars with graceful brassanium curves and all manner of chunky steam and clockwork gigs and carriages.

  A burly stablehand met them as they entered. “We’re just preparing the town coach as requested. Will you be needing a driver, sir?”

  Nimrod paused, considering, then replied, “No. I’ll manage fine tonight. Thank you, Clark.”

  Clark shuffled his feet awkwardly. “You sure, sir? You know the rules.”

  “I made the rules. I think I can break them once in a while.”

  “Very good, sir,” answered Clark in a manner that suggested it was anything but.

  “Professor, what are the rules?” Sin asked.

  “The Committee’s worried that I may be a target and so I’m not supposed to go out on my own. It’s a load of old phooey and to be honest I’m fed up with being chaperoned.”

  They followed the stablehand to a streamlined scarlet and gold liveried machine. An ironglass dome covered the central driver’s seat, behind which extended a more traditional passenger compartment.

  Two more servants, dripping with sweat, turned a giant winding key thrust under the carriage’s body, tight
ening the motor’s spring. “She’ll be good to get you to town and back, sir, but we’ve done no more than fifty turns,” said Clark.

  Nimrod jumped onto the lowest rung of a set of steps and heaved open the carriage door. “That’s excellent, my good man.” He stepped inside and held out a hand for Zonda who followed him up. Sin joined them, dropping into a cushioned seat. Nimrod strapped into the driver’s position and pushed the steering yoke. The clockwork springs moaned and with a gentle twang the contraption began to move.

  Sin had never travelled by carriage and the speed with which the estate zipped by was exhilarating and frightening in equal proportions. Nimrod threw the carriage into corners with reckless abandon, a huge grin on his face as the narrow wheels slid sideways across the gravel. Despite the driving style, the ride was incredibly smooth. A series of pistons and springs kept the passenger compartment level.

  “This is incredible,” said Zonda. “I was expecting a real bone shaker.”

  “Gyroscopic self-levelling. I designed it myself. It’s an adaptation of the one I use in the watchmek to keep them upright.” He glanced over his shoulder at the two candidates. “At least when no one’s knocking them over.”

  “Where are we going?” asked Sin, changing the subject.

  “William Henry Fox Talbot knows more about photography than any man,” Nimrod paused acknowledging Zonda, “or woman alive. He will undoubtedly have the lenses and chemicals we need to make the camera-nocturna.”

  “And he’s expecting us?” asked Zonda.

  “Oh yes, I sent a tweet. We’re going to meet him at my gentleman’s club, the Royal Society of Inventors.”

  * * *

  They reached the cobbled streets of Coxford and their progress slowed. The city seemed different, grubbier and more run down. Or maybe he was different, thought Sin. It had only been a few days, could he really have forgotten the hardship and the squalor already? He looked down at his new boots and tailored clothes and a feeling of guilt stole over him. His old crew would be huddled together in a cellar, cold and hungry, or out on the streets, fighting for survival. Sure, any of them would have done the same in his position, but it didn’t stop him feeling bad about it. And what would the Fixer think? He’d always been tough on Sin. It was his way of teaching Sin the ropes, training him for better things. Would he be pleased that Sin had escaped the life? Probably not – he’d be smarting that Sin still owed him money.