Lands Beyond Box Set: Books 1 - 3

by Kin S. Law

  “Never met an Oriental with a name like that. I’m sorry; you’ll have to do better.”

  “It’s all you’re getting. You want my help or no?”

  “Right,” he sighed, all sign of cockney gone. “I couldn’t help but put two and two together. I’ve a good nose for perfumes, you see. You’re the famous air pirate, the Manchu Marauder.”

  “The Scourge of Shanghai, the Hanoi Highwayman, the Bandit of Budapest. In the flesh, nice to meet you.” I clicked the hammer, perfectly audible in our little booth. “Now call off your cronies.”

  “They would be why I need your help. If I may?”

  Elric Blair slowly opened his large coat, reaching into the inside pocket. He produced a small derringer, the cheap two-shot variety, and placed it on the table. As a show of good will, I put my own revolver on the table. My Victoria gouged a fresh gash in the worn oak, her sleek black barrel and heavy elm grip remaining firmly in hand. Blair’s gun, on the other hand, was well out of his grasp. Inexperience with firearms, or a show of honesty?

  Fortunately, the pub’s high booth walls and dusky atmosphere gave us enough privacy. It also prevented the two toughs behind Blair from seeing the weapons. Blair whistled gently at Victoria.

  “Big gun. A Colt, is it, from the Americas?”

  “It was a gift. Now, come clean, Mr. Blair, or you will find my big gun making some big holes.”

  “It’s a Marlowe Scheme, Mr. Shaw,” Blair sighed.

  Ah, a good, old-fashioned mugging, so named because it involved three men and a dagger. A harmless-looking foil selected a green, preferably foreign, target, presenting him with some attractive, illicit local consumable, likely a woman or substance. An invitation would be given. A throat would be cut. Simple.

  “Only you picked me instead of an easy mark,” I filled in.

  “Right on the money,” he agreed. “Apologies. I believe I’ve forced you into this situation. As I’ve given you no alternative, an air pirate like yourself ought to be able to handle two common thugs.”

  “You seem used to this kind of coercion, but unused to violence. I am curious to know–what are you doing with street toughs like Clives and Staples? And in motley, no less.”

  “Not my color? Heh. You know them.”

  “I know of them. The Lewis brothers made their rounds up and down the coast, and with those ugly mugs it’s hard to mistake them for anyone else,” I remarked. Squatting in their own booth, the two looked like a Bulldog and a Doberman leering at an unfriendly pack, or a fresh bone.

  “It was how I found them as well. I’m sorry, Shaw, your speech is so…”

  “American?”

  “…correct. It is odd, hearing an Oriental with such perfect mastery of the Queen’s English. Your accent is undoubtedly Yankee, but the pronunciation, the grammar, and the diction…” The man seemed bemused, almost academic. His fingers scrabbled at an invisible pen.

  “You’ll find many today with the capacity for language, amongst other things, Master Blair. It is the Steam Age, after all, and a journalist should know the most valuable booty aboard a dirigible is information.”

  Blair sat back at this, seemingly jolted out of his reverie. Credit must be given, for my revelation did not faze him much, only causing him to drop the last shred of pretense.

  “You’re right, of course. I’ve written volumes of London’s dirtiest ditches, but I must admit I am out of my element. I fully intended to apply an earlier method, of getting…up close and personal with the unwashed masses, and thus learning something of their plight. I am afraid I’ve gotten mixed up with—quite literally—cutthroats. However hard pressed for one’s living we are, murder is never just. ”

  “I think I’ve read your work. Changed my whole attitude towards cigarettes.”

  “Don’t believe that was the point of the piece…”

  “Hah! I like you, Mr. Blair.”

  “I am beginning to be fond of you as well, Mister…Shaw.”

  We sat there, two grinning baboons, until our pretty barmaid came to perch at the end of the booth on the pretext of clearing away flagons.

  “When you lovebirds are done, your friends might be wanting a word with you,” she mentioned.

  One look over her shoulder confirmed the situation. Misters Clives and Staples were becoming uneasy. Clearly, something would have to be done.

  “Oy!” I cried, quite loudly.

  My aim was sure. Several locals perked their ears. “You lot, are you going to stand for it? Those city toffs just called you backward, hillbilly wankers!”

  Instant flashpoint. Within moments a magnificent bar fight had broken out, stools and flagons and pint glasses flying by overhead. It was dockhands versus dandies, pirates versus bandits, and the Celts against everybody else, laughing like bloody hyenas as their teeth left their faces. The tarts fled for high ground, the pushers for low, and everyone else started dodging. Wisely, Blair, Blondie and I slunk down below the table, our flagons held perfectly level, apple-flavored breath pooling in the tight, safe space.

  “Wasn’t that an American insult?” our maid asked, between liberal sips from my flagon.

  “Not for anyone living south of Virginia?” I supplied.

  “Please, Master Pirate, we should be making for the door!” Blair cried.

  “In a moment. Wait for it…now!”

  Coarse wood swung shut behind us, casting us suddenly into a dense, brackish fog. Wet cobbles threatened to overturn our raggedy trio onto the road, but it was still better than the crossfire going on inside the Jilted Merman. A dim moon lit just enough of the road. A gentle sloshing came from water nearby. Though Blair had hastened us out of the bar, I now took the lead with long strides, trying my best to look like I knew where I was going. Our barmaid stayed behind, leaning between window and door should either emit a defeated inebriate. She waved a cheerful goodbye as she disappeared behind us. Now it was only the two of us old dogs, as my Imperial Cantonese brethren would put it.

  “Well, now, I suggest you get on with the nature of the help you would like, Mister Blair,” I said as we passed the sturdy brick and plaster of Portsmouth’s dockside dwellings.

  “I would have thought it obvious,” he answered. “You are an air pirate. Ergo, you possess a ship. I should like passage on said ship, anywhere out of Portsmouth. All the dock’s men were told not to let me through.”

  “Why would Clives and Staples pay them off to keep a writer from leaving town? I thought you were working for them.”

  “Ah, I should have been clearer; the local constabulary has me pegged for this very reason. The Lewis brothers have tainted me with their brand of devilry, I’m afraid.”

  We turned now, into a darker alley.

  “And have you committed any crime?” I asked, not really expecting a reliable answer.

  “I witnessed a murder, and was seen in the brothers’ company. For the locals, it is enough,” Blair said without malice.

  Fog now blanketed the street, but I knew where the mooring towers would have been, looming over the town like abyssal giants risen from the sea. Dim stars glowed through the fog, the only trace of gaslight marking a low line of quiet seaside buildings.

  Of course, the Lewis brothers were waiting for us just around the corner, perfectly at home perched atop some coal pallets. The shorter, bulldog one, Clives, shuffled his feet, while the taller Doberman Staples rolled a crucifix-emblazoned cane between his fingers. As soon as we emerged out of the fog, the brothers closed the trap on either side of us, effectively pinning us in with a matching pair of knives.

  “Thought you could get away from us, huh, old chum? No stomach for butcher’s work?” Staples leered.

  “Maybe he knew all along, steered us a fat mark,” Clives chimed in.

  “I’ll take the tall one,” I whispered to Blair, even as the cutthroats circled us. “If you can, get Clives.”“With what? I left my derringer in the pub,” Blair whispered back, clearly panicked.

  He would have made
a terrible cutthroat. We had no time for planning, anyway. The Lewis brothers rushed at us.

  Mist flew by, cold and sharp. Sensations of an elm grip firmly weighted my palm, the hammer cocking with practiced speed. A solid kick announced the trigger going, but the snap was lost in an instant, muffled against the mist. Gun smoke washed out the sweet flavor of apple still clinging to my lips, a scent further diluted by a memory of clear skies, drawling accents, and fragrant wafts of cigar leaf. When was the last time I had fired Victoria and thought of Captain Samuel?

  With a sound like a rotted, downed log, Staples crumpled at my feet, but I was no longer looking. My feet had whirled around, knowing the other brother was assaulting Elric. I shouldn’t have bothered. A metallic thud sounded in the misty street, and suddenly Clives had joined his brother, a massive welt rising atop his grizzled head.

  “My, you boys are up to no good,” our blonde barmaid remarked, a heavy tea kettle in her right hand. Blair lay crumpled in a most undignified pile, attempting to untangle himself from Clives.

  “How did you…?” I wasn’t sure if Blair or I were responsible for the wet sound of speechless mouths flapping.

  “The same way they did—through the back door,” the maid answered. After the initial rush, she turned to look at the prone figures sprawled on the cobbles. Was that shock, or disgust? “Shite, I do believe we’ve committed murder.”

  “They’ll live. Staples might lose a couple feet of intestine,” I answered. “But it’s probably safer to leave right away.”

  “Agreed,” my newfound companion said.

  Crikey, what had I done to deserve them? A violently assertive barmaid and a useless writer, both of whom knew my identity, now looked to me for guidance. It would probably be best for them to hide out in my ship, never mind what the morrow would bring.

  Swiftly, the three of us dashed along the streets of Portsmouth, grand old manors and redbrick dwellings giving way to the trace italien of Southsea Castle. The glow of the castle’s lighthouse beam came through as a giant column of dimly lit mist over our heads. From above, the false moon would be one of three bounding the edge of the city from the wild ocean. Their light served to guide our way now, glinting off the rails set into the stone street. At the docks further north, these rails came together in a spider’s web of tracks, delivering the bounty of the Pax Brittania Empire throughout the homeland from the holds of hundreds of dirigibles.

  “I say, aren’t we headed away from the mooring towers?” Blair called.

  “You said it yourself, the dock’s men are all alerted to your presence. Besides, there’s a damned Naval base that way.”

  We headed down South Parade, making for the pier. In the darkness, the restaurant and shops looked quiet and sad. We made our way along the promenade, suddenly amongst the nickelodeons, deserted fairy floss stands and midget-dirigible rides of the funfair.

  “Having a go at us, Marauder? These tiny boats won’t even hold one of me,” our barmaid said, tapping at one of the children’s seats bolted to a guide rail.

  “They certainly won’t,” I commented, failing to resist the urge to leer at her ample assets.

  “Cad!” she answered, and I hoped it was in jest. Something about her flirting bothered me, but I was unsure what.

  “Never mind those. Come, come.” I gestured.

  Past the charming carousel full of gilt horses and carriages, and the calliope with its silent, sentinel pipes, I led my little band toward the small Ferris wheel, perched at the very edge of the pier. Part of me regretted giving up such a good hiding place, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

  At the very bottom of the wheel, there was an iron ring set in the floor. Lifting this up resulted in two very satisfying gasps of surprise, for underneath was a catwalk leading to a dirigible’s gondola. Her hull was scarcely wider than a couple of coffins, but there was a bit of a castle to house the works. Cables disappeared up through the boardwalk above, and surf lapped at the keel. I stood there on the deck as if I was proud of the thing, and immediately received a fair bit of entertainment.

  “Who would have thought the big, bad Scourge of Shanghai would own such a tiny pirate ship?” Elric Blair remarked. “I suppose you’ll have to cling to the mast after yielding the cabin to the lady.”

  “Pirates don’t have to follow etiquette,” I answered, sedately stoking up the modest boiler. With a pop and a sparkle, the embers came to life.

  “And the balloon? Ah, there we are,” Blair continued, gaze rising. “Disguised as a child’s flying elephant, how quaint.”

  “How absolutely adorable. To think, the Bandit of Budapest dropping out of the sky under a giant pink elephant,” the maid remarked.

  As a matter of fact, I had a standing deal with the funfair owner, a rather pleasant Mrs. Bakersfield. The appearance of Jumbo the Pink Elephant had become something of a local mystery, attracting more than its share of curious fairgoers. I was sure more than a few disobedient children staying up that night in the South of England would have a new chapter to add to Jumbo’s legend. The sight of him floating up in the clouds, towing what appeared to be a sailing boat under him, ought to bring a neat conclusion to his story. I am sorry to say, Jumbo would probably not be making an appearance much longer, owing to her new guests. In but a few moments, we were on our merry way, all of Portsmouth spread under us as we rose into the night sky. Southsea Castle and Portsea Island reclined beneath us. I could see as far as Portsdown Hill over the fog.

  “This is a load off my mind, Captain Shaw,” Blair said. “I will be most glad when this ginger hair grows out and I am free of this guise completely.”

  “You are most welcome, Mister Blair. Now then,” I said, turning. “If all is in order, I believe I should like for you to tell me what you are doing on my ship, my dear Inspector.”

  I was not surprised to find myself face-to-face with the level, steady barrel of a .22 Tranter pistol, held in the hands of the beautiful blonde barmaid.

  2

  How Hargreaves Got Trapped in a Bag

  I stood there with my derringer pointed steadily at the pirate captain, fully expecting the Manchu Marauder’s cooperation. A strand of hair tickled my cheek where I had let go of it, but I ignored it. I had saved the Marauder and his mate from a gutting, and gotten them out of that godforsaken pub at the cost of my cover. That should have disinclined him from harming me. From his reputation, he had a code of honor.

  That was my mistake.

  Of course, I knew the Manchu Marauder had figured out I was a copper. I knew as soon as I showed him that last inch of skin and he hadn’t batted an eye. So I had caught him unawares, pulling the derringer out of my boot before Clemens could board familiar territory. I couldn’t be prepared for the batty-fanging, though, as what felt like a heavy tarp descended on my face and shoulders.

  “Murph!” I remember crying out, but immediately stopped for fear of suffocation. My arms stuck fast to my sides. Then my legs came out from under me, but I was being carried. So I stopped struggling—no point, as I had clearly been bested. There would be a time for Inspector Vanessa Hargreaves of Scotland Yard to fight back.

  Besides, there might be a way to turn this capture to my advantage after all.

  I couldn’t be sure what was happening outside the hot, blinding dark of the tarpaulin pressing against my face, but as I was unceremoniously dumped onto a hard surface, my thoughts went to how I had come into this unsavory pickle. I spared a thought for my corset—surely ruined, the stays hopelessly warped. Men. So rude.

  As what was clearly an airship’s deck lifted up under me, I recalled that fateful day standing over a great big pit in London. My London...

  Looking out over the gaping hole in the sky where Big Ben used to tick away over the streets of Westminster, I felt most insulted. Grey and coal silhouettes filled in the spaces where Ben’s calm white face and widow’s peak used to be. It was very nearly enough to distract me from the gaping crater directly beneath, nearly,
except for the cries of people being freed from the rubble and the whistle of steam engines under loads of heavy debris.

  “By Queen and Country, what in the blazes happened?” I voiced aloud, not daring to actually ask the busy rescue workers all about. It was tempting to leap in and help, but I was quintessentially British. I had a role to play, and diving in the rubble was not it.

  “Quite outdoes anything Guy Fawkes might have plotted, no?” an annoyingly familiar, disturbingly high-pitched male voice tore across the crater.

  I turned, sighing massively into my ample bosom. It had been done up in the whalebone corset, not my usual. I didn’t want to shock the town and draw attention to one of the most progressive women in all of England, and one of the few female Inspectors of the Yard. Yet I could never escape the notice of Arturo C. Adler. I suddenly needed a strong cup of tea, preferably the Irish stuff, thick enough to hold a couple fingers of whiskey in.

  “Yes, Arturo, you insistent hack, what do you have for me?” I said to the shocking vermillion horror approaching. This young man’s perfectly coiffed hair clashed with my hooded cloak and ashen dress. It bounced over the broken foundations and dribbling pipes like a jumping hedgehog. No, there was no going incognito with Adler around.

  “That is no way to speak to a fellow detective,” accused Arturo.

  One could always count on his rainbow-speckled do popping up whenever there was an incident in London Town. One could also count on his knowing every detail of a police case an alarmingly short time later. His knack for finding things out so quickly was disarming, as if he had been trained by an old hand at investigations.

  “I am a detective. You are a nosy busybody with far too much time on your hands,” I insulted the dapper fellow. If it were not for the ridiculous magnifying glass, he could have been mistaken for a cheese-headed toff.

  “Our pillow talk never ceases to amuse,” Adler jeered. “Let us to the matter at hand. This case is certainly more interesting than some truncheon-bearing troll.”