Dominion Rising: 23 Brand New Science Fiction and Fantasy Novels

by White, Gwynn

  With the sun well up, and confident that her crew could handle any obstacle now, Briar climbed down the ladder into the cabin she had called home since she was three years old. She crossed the small space in a few strides and ducked into her stateroom—a curtained-off area that held her bunk—to change clothes. The dress was an annoyance on deck, and she was glad to be finished with it. She was half tempted to toss it in the canal, but it would make more sense to sell it. After all, she needed every dime she could get her hands on if she was going to buy the boat.

  Leaving her room a few minutes later, she stepped back out into the main cabin and spied Mr. Martel’s trunk beneath the table mounted on the wall. Fortunately, it was a small trunk and didn’t take up too much room—and there wasn’t any room to spare.

  Briar was relieved to see the lock still in place. She had been concerned about what the little metal dragon might get into down here. Seeing the lock now, it was hard to believe that it was anything other than what it appeared to be.

  She knelt beside the trunk and tentatively touched the lock. The metal surface dimpled at her touch, and she jerked her hand away with a gasp. A swirl of molten silver, and suddenly the little dragon clung to the hasp instead of the lock.

  It emitted a happy metal-on-metal scraping noise. The gray-blue eyes blinked up at her, then it leapt across the space that separated them. Like last time, Briar fell on her butt and the little dragon settled on her shoulder.

  “I guess I didn’t imagine it.” Briar reached up to rub a finger beneath the metal chin.

  The dragon cooed.

  “How are you, Lock?” she asked. “Do you care if I call you that?”

  A few clicks and a whirr of hidden gears was the answer. It really did seem to understand her.

  Leaving the little dragon on her shoulder, she opened the trunk and pulled out the top scroll, reaffirming that it was real as well. But was it truly ferromancy? She didn’t want to take it to the newspaper, create a big stir, then discover that it was a mundane design with some silly labeling. But who could she ask?

  She snapped her fingers. “Uncle Liam.” Liam Adams wasn’t a blood relation, but he and Uncle Charlie had been good friends. She had spent a lot of time with him and his wife when she was a child. They even referred to themselves as her godparents. Liam was well educated and had even lived in Europe as a younger man. Most importantly, he was a talented inventor.

  Taking out her pen and paper, she took a seat at her small table and composed a quick letter. Uncle Liam lived in Columbus. If she sent him the plans via the much quicker mail service, he could study them before she arrived.

  A knock sounded on the hatch above her. “Cap’n Briar?”

  Lock let out a little squeak, then he scampered down the front of her waistcoat to her pocket and slipped inside.

  Curious, she reached in the pocket and pulled out the now familiar silver lock. Returning it to her pocket, she climbed the ladder to the upper deck. Eli waited a few feet away.

  “What is it?” she asked him.

  “Your prisoner is awake.”

  She frowned, not caring for his choice of words, but she could hardly argue that Mr. Martel was anything else. “Is that a problem?” she asked.

  “He’s demanding to see you.” Eli’s thick brows drew together. “And he’s really not happy.”

  4

  Briar followed Eli along the catwalk toward midship. The morning air was cool, and since they had just switched mule teams, they were making good time. The bank slipped past at four miles per hour. It helped that they were running light, but she planned to pick up a load. With what she had saved, a few good runs this summer should net her enough to buy the boat from Andrew. After all, he cared only about the money. If she bought the boat and removed the need for him to finance her, she was certain he would be glad to see her go.

  The sunlight beat down into the empty cargo hold. Eli had been kind enough to situate their guest beneath the shade of the catwalk, but that would change as the sun moved across the sky.

  Briar dropped into the hold and saw that her prisoner was sitting up on his bale of hay. The bloody rag was no longer wrapped around his forehead, exposing a small scabbed-over cut. But a second rag had been cinched around his mouth and his hands bound behind his back.

  He watched her approach, his eyes narrowed, but he didn’t look so much angry as suspicious.

  “Remove his gag,” she told Eli.

  He stepped forward and did as she asked, tugging the gag from her prisoner’s mouth. The younger man worked his jaw a few times, his eyes remaining on her, though he didn’t speak.

  “I do apologize for the rough treatment,” she said to him.

  A frown shadowed his eyes, but he remained silent.

  “You are Mr. Martel, are you not?”

  “Do I look like a railroad engineer?” he demanded, his words accented. Was he British?

  “Then who are you? His servant?”

  His eyes flickered to Eli before returning to her.

  “Eli, would you leave us?”

  “Captain, I don’t think—”

  “He’s bound. I’ll be fine.”

  Eli studied her for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll be up top.” His gaze held their prisoner’s as he spoke. The pair stared each other down before Eli turned and entered the bow cabin, which served as the crew’s bunkhouse. Using the ladder inside to reach the upper deck, Eli gave them some privacy.

  Briar turned back to her prisoner. She could tell by the movement of his shoulders that he was testing his bonds.

  “The tying of knots is a skill honed by all boatmen,” she told him. “You won’t be slipping those.”

  He rose to his feet. The man was easily half-a-head taller than she was. He hadn’t seemed all that big when lying down last night. “You will give me the property you stole.” His soft, accented voice was so cold a chill slid down her spine. “And you will allow me to alight from this barge.”

  “Boat,” she corrected. “And no, I will not.”

  His cold gaze moved over her as if he sized her up—and came away unimpressed. “Solon must be desperate indeed if this is the best thief he could secure.”

  “Thief?” she demanded.

  “I assume Solon agreed to some reimbursement for your trouble. How else would you describe this dark errand you have clearly agreed to do?”

  She’d had enough with his cold, condescending tone, and his implication that she took money to commit a crime. This was a valiant effort to save the livelihood of thousands of canal workers like herself.

  “If you’re not Mr. Martel, then why do you care about what becomes of his property?” Was he the thief?

  “His interests are my interests.”

  “You do work for him.”

  He didn’t confirm or deny the accusation.

  “Who the hell are you?” she demanded.

  He regarded her a moment in silence. “John Grayson. My friends call me Gray.”

  She remembered the name and monogram inscribed on his watch. Perhaps he was telling the truth. “Well, Mr. Grayson,” she emphasized the name, letting him know that he sure as hell wasn’t her friend, “I have no clue what you’re rattling on about. My intentions are noble. I’m not going to sit by and let the railroad destroy my way of life.”

  He frowned, but didn’t comment.

  “I’m sure the public will feel the same when they learn that Martel is a ferromancer.”

  Mr. Grayson visibly stiffened.

  “I see I have your attention.”

  “What would you know of such things?” His tone remained cold.

  “I’ve seen his plans.”

  “How would you manage that? The trunk was locked, and I hold the only key.”

  “You mean this lock?” She pulled the silver lock from her pocket.

  “How—” He didn’t get to finish his question before the lock transformed into the little automaton. With a squeal of some internal mechanism, it leapt from her han
d to his upper arm, scampering upward until it balanced on his shoulder. It moaned, the sound oddly forlorn, then rose up on its rear legs to sniff the wound above Grayson’s eyebrow.

  Grayson turned his head, muttering something.

  The little dragon dropped back to its perch on his shoulder, emitting another soft moan. Then rubbed its nose against the side of his neck.

  “I see you are familiar with Mr. Martel’s security device.”

  “I’m the one who procured it, in London.”

  She eyed him. Was that where he hailed from? “You can buy such things there? Openly?”

  “Before the Scourge, yes. Since then, it’s not so easy.”

  She frowned, wondering what he knew of such things. Being near her age, Mr. Grayson couldn’t have witnessed the destruction of the ferromancers, even if he did hail from that part of the world.

  “So all of it, the Scourge, the ferromancers, it’s true?” she asked, marveling that he had traveled so far and had seen so much.

  “You’re the one who claimed that Mr. Martel is a ferromancer.”

  “And you’re the one with the little metal dragon cooing in recognition on your shoulder.”

  “Perhaps he is a wonder of mechanical design.”

  “He’s a creature of independent thought and movement. Aren’t you, Lock?”

  The little dragon cooed.

  “You do not name a construct!” Mr. Grayson looked furious.

  Briar lifted a brow, pleased by the break in his cool, controlled demeanor. “Why not?”

  He opened his mouth, then closed it, seeming at a loss for words. “You just don’t.”

  “Good reason.”

  “Do not meddle with what you don’t understand.” He spoke between clenched teeth.

  She smiled at his evident agitation. “Come here, Lock.” She held out her hand, and the little dragon leapt across the space that separated them. A flap of his wings, and he landed lightly on her palm. Could he really fly?

  Briar was tempted to ask, but the muscle ticking in Grayson’s jaw made it clear that he wasn’t in the mood to entertain questions.

  “Captain?” Eli called out.

  Lock gave a little squeak and once more scampered down her waistcoat to disappear into her pocket.

  “What is it?” Briar answered.

  Eli stepped up to the edge of the hold. “We’re about to lock through number forty-four. You still want to stop in Waverly?”

  “I do. I didn’t get to restock in Portsmouth.”

  “Waverly?” Grayson asked, still frowning.

  “Twenty miles north of Portsmouth,” she answered.

  His dark brows ticked upward, and a speculative look entered his eyes. Was he planning to try an escape?

  “Eli, would you be so kind as to secure our passenger? Perhaps out of sight in the bunkhouse?” Briar asked. “Then you’d best get to the tiller.”

  “Yes, Captain.” Eli jumped down to join her, then turned to their passenger.

  Briar left the hold without looking back.

  * * *

  Leaving Eli on the boat, Briar sent Zach and Benji over to Emmitt’s Store for supplies while she and Jimmy visited the mill and the distillery to see if anyone had some cargo that needed to go north. They might as well make the trip a profitable one.

  Her inquiries met with success, and she left Jimmy to oversee the loading of the cargo while she walked to the post office to mail her package to Uncle Liam. She didn’t miss the irony that the package would travel by rail to reach him.

  Finished, she headed back to the boat, cutting behind the train station. A train had arrived recently, and the streets around the station were busy with horses and carriages, picking up or dropping off passengers.

  Briar stepped into the street, stopping behind a stationary carriage while she waited for a loaded wagon to pass. She leaned out to see if anything else was coming and glimpsed a pair of men leaving the train station. She pulled back behind the carriage with a gasp. One of the men was Andrew.

  Taking a deep breath, she peeked out again. She released the breath when she saw Andrew walking away with the man. Apparently, he hadn’t seen her.

  Her gaze shifted to the other man, noting his long dark cloak. She stood straighter. Could he be the one she’d seen murder that man in Portsmouth?

  “Stop jumping at shadows,” she muttered. Half the men in the country probably had a cloak like that. Besides, none of this was her concern. She needed to get back to the dock and get out of here before Andrew realized she’d taken the boat. But what was Andrew doing in Waverly, and who was that man? Could it be Mr. Martel? But what were they doing here and not in Portsmouth?

  Briar leaned against the back of the carriage, considering her next move. She couldn’t just leave. Not with so many unanswered questions.

  Looking out once more, Briar watched Andrew and his companion round the corner at the end of the street. She hesitated, bouncing on the balls of her feet. Unable to deny her curiosity, she hurried after them. It was risky. If Andrew saw her, she’d lose access to her boat, but she had to know what he and Mr. Martel—if that was Mr. Martel—were doing.

  She kept her pace to a rapid walk and stopped at the corner. Leaning against the wall, she looked into the next street.

  Andrew and his friend had stopped midway down the street beside a hired carriage. They discussed something, but she couldn’t hear their words from here. If she could get closer…

  She eyed their surroundings, noting a stack of crates near a vegetable stand, and behind that, a narrow alley. If she circled around and came in through the alley, she could hide behind the crates and listen. The distance wasn’t too great, so she should be able to eavesdrop without trouble.

  Her plan in mind, she hurried back the way she had come, breaking into a jog when she turned down the street that ran parallel to the one where Andrew currently stood. She found the alley she sought, the crates visible at the far end. Rushing forward, she reached her destination without incident.

  Fortunately, the vegetable vendor must have stepped away from his stall. She squatted beside the crates, smelling the earthy scent of produce within. If the vendor returned, he would certainly view her with suspicion and demand to know what she was doing.

  Briar quieted her breathing and strained her ears in an effort to hear any conversation from the street. She was about to lean out and verify that Andrew was still there when he spoke.

  “I had no idea, sir,” Andrew said. “It was a business venture, to build locomotives.”

  “Do not trouble yourself. I believe you,” the man answered, his accent much like Grayson’s.

  “You said you had a counter offer,” Andrew continued, the eagerness heavy in his tone. “I came as requested.”

  “Indeed you did.” A soft chuckle followed.

  Briar frowned. Was he Martel or not?

  “If you would accompany my associate,” the accented voice continued, “I will join you shortly to discuss my offer.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Solon,” Andrew answered.

  Briar’s breath caught. Wasn’t that the name of the man Mr. Grayson had accused her of working for? And the bigger question: How did Solon know Andrew?

  The sound of a carriage step being lowered carried to her, followed by the squeak of the springs as someone climbed aboard. Andrew? Damn, she had missed the conversation.

  She waited, listening for the carriage to pull away.

  A scuff of a shoe on pavement was the only warning she got before someone stepped around the crates. Had the produce vendor returned?

  She rose to her feet, ready to explain that she was searching for a dropped coin, but took a hasty step back instead. A well-dressed man stood before her, his dark hair just beginning to gray at the temples. But he wasn’t a random stranger. She recognized the dark cloak Andrew’s companion had been wearing. This was Mr. Solon.

  “What have we here?” he asked, his accent confirming who he was. Fortunately, the crates hid her f
rom view of the carriage should Andrew look out.

  She looked up into Solon’s slate-colored eyes. Something like a smile curled his lips, but the coldness in his eyes gave it a sinister twist. Her ready excuse died before she could utter it.

  “You shouldn’t have left the safety of the convent,” he continued. “And certainly not with a souvenir.”

  She opened her mouth to demand what the hell he was talking about when he laid a hand over her lower ribcage. For an instant, she thought he was attempting to grope her, then she realized he had placed his hand over her pocket. The pocket where Lock was hidden.

  “Do you mind?” She reached out and gripped his wrist. Cool metal met her fingers and she glanced down, expecting that he wore some kind of bracelet. He didn’t. His wrist and most of his hand were covered in, or maybe made of metal. The same shiny silver metal that made up Lock.

  She jerked her hand from his cool wrist. Oh dear God, a ferromancer.

  “I know this soul,” he whispered. His cold eyes narrowed. “You cannot have him, witch.” He took a step closer.

  “If you mean this poppet in my pocket, I stole it fair and square. Get one of your own, metal ass.” She stepped toward him and brought her knee up. Hard.

  For a split second, she feared his man parts might be made of metal, as well, but he doubled over with a grunt an instant later. His bizarre metal hand left her ribs for his crotch.

  Briar didn’t stick around for the obligatory cursing that was sure to follow. She turned and ran.

  The business district was in full swing this morning. She darted through the busy streets, forcing herself to take the most congested and roundabout path back to the docks. If the ferromancer gave chase, she hoped to lose him in the crowd.

  A few glances over her shoulder revealed that no pursuit had come. At least, not one she could see. Could he track her in some other way? Lock? She’d have to ask Mr. Grayson. He seemed to know a few things about ferromancers. But if he knew, would he tell?