Bitter Cold: A Steampunk Snow Queen (The Clockwork Republic Series Book 4) (9 page)

"Odd that we both heard someone." The captain of the Whirlwind had the weathered face of a sailor to match his raspy voice.

"The docking platform has many levels and airship balloons have peculiar acoustic properties. Sound carries strangely." She glared at the men, daring them to contradict her.

The freighter captain looked at the Aeolus, then gave the wooden case a speculative gaze. "Lots of things being carried strangely this evening."

~*~

"My apologies, Miss DeWinter. I wasn't certain where you'd want me to seat your . . . guest." The carriage driver looked significantly at Kit's filthy clothing and the pristine brocade which covered the seats of the carriage.

"Sit him up front with you." Evelyn sighed. Another little detail failed to go according to the plan. It was inconceivable that anyone would recognize the tinker during the short drive to her town house, but these small hitches were accumulating at an alarming rate.

Evelyn seethed in her carriage. She hated it when even the tiniest details failed to follow her schemes. The tinker was supposed to have been plucked from the edge of the cliff, not scraped off its muddy side. They were supposed to have escaped any notice when landing. Everyone was supposed to have believed Kit died in the river.

If there was one thing Valentine harped on, it was to never leave loose ends. He certainly abided by that rule himself. He'd spilled the secrets of forbidden alchemy as if sharing a recipe for strawberry scones, but he'd never offered his last name. She doubted Valentine was really his given name. His insights into alchemy had been indispensable, especially his suggestions for avoiding the interference of the Guild. His motives were far less clear. The last thing she needed was for him to decide she was a loose end which needed snipping.

She'd meant what she said when she told Gresham the girl was no threat. Still, it was possible she could show up looking for the tinker. This was not the time for inconvenient questions from what passed for the authorities in Little Rock.

If the girl from the newspaper stories was anything like Kit, she might be more formidable than she first appeared. According to Gresham, she was an amateur alchemist, a girl of good breeding but poor manners. Evelyn hadn't attained her position by allowing even harmless opponents any quarter.

The carriage chugged to a stop in front of the impressive stone facade of her town house. Kit clambered down from the front and followed her as obediently as a puppy. The door was opened by Gaskon, her 'gen butler. He bowed as they entered, an action with more fluid grace than most men of flesh and blood could have accomplished.

"Welcome home, Miss DeWinter. Do you require anything?" The rich, warm tones of his voice always brought a shiver to Evelyn's heart. Whether that frisson was the thrill of getting away with illegal alchemy or a twinge of guilt was difficult to say. She chose to believe it was the former. Guilt was the one luxury she could never afford. Not if she truly intended to fulfill her destiny. She responded to the 'gen in her usual clipped tone.

"Send Richardson to the haberdashers. We'll need to replace Mr. Merryweather's clothes. His adventures have irreparably damaged them and we will be leaving for Pineville tomorrow morning." The Boreas was the only place she felt safe building the Eternity Engine.

"Very good. You've also received two wires."

Gaskon handed her two slips of paper, each imprinted with a neatly typed message. The first was from Valentine.

"Happy to see hounds working well. Anticipate progress report soon. If not, I may be obliged to pay a visit. - V"

The words sent a shiver down her spine wondering what Valentine meant by "paying a visit." She doubted he'd be stopping by for a cup of tea and pleasant conversation. The small man, with his suave accent and the wicked gleam in his eyes, emanated power and ruthless self-interest.

He was far too much like her.

The second telegram was from Gresham. It could not be good news. He wouldn't send a wire unless it were too urgent to wait for the raven to return.

"Girl in pursuit. Agent observing her. Should I intervene?"

Evelyn wadded the paper into a ball. An agent of the Alchemists Guild was involved? She drew a deep breath. The Guild getting wind of her plot defied probability. Even if they knew about the Engine, and had connected the tinker's disappearance to it, they couldn't have gotten an agent there this quickly. The Guild was a hopeless quagmire of bureaucracy, one of the many reasons she'd refused to join them.

No, most likely they were simply scouting the girl for membership. She was an alchemist, after all. But if she was an alchemist whose skill had attracted Guild attention, she'd need to be eliminated before she caused any more trouble.

Gresham would happily slit the girl's throat, but such obvious foul play would draw too much attention. No, Gresham should deal with the Guild's agent, and she'd handle the girl in a more delicate fashion. This far from St. Louis, even if the body was found, it was unlikely anyone would identify her. The Engine would be complete soon, and then it wouldn't matter.

"Gaskon, please send a wire to Gresham. He's probably still at the telegraph office awaiting a reply. The message should read 'Give my regards to our friend. I will prepare a reception for the young lady.'"

"Very well, ma'am. Will there be anything else?"

"Send the carriage for Halfacre," she said. "I have a job requiring her attention."

There was a slight pause before Gaskon nodded, and rolled from the room. Evelyn chewed her lower lip and narrowed her eyes, troubled by the 'gen's pause. She made a mental note to visit the basement and ensure everything there was as it should be.

Isadora Halfacre was the widow of Hiram, her steam factory foreman, and useful in delicate situations where more overt means of persuasion were impractical. Hiram had disappeared, presumed killed in a tragic accident some years back. A few weeks later, Gaskon had replaced Evelyn's former, far less capable automaton butler.

The Halfacres had no children or family, so the widow depended entirely upon Evelyn's generosity. She seemed harmless, even helpless, but she'd do the job. A few ounces of gold in the widow's pocket, a sprinkling of poison in a cup of tea, and this girl would be merely another obstacle overcome on Evelyn's path to absolute power.

Chapter 9

The Rusty Sextant

For the first time in her life, Greta wished she were better dressed. Her green poplin dress hadn't been terribly impressive even before getting rumpled from spending the night sleeping on the ground. She stood on the corner of two busy thoroughfares at the edge of Little Rock, the shining capital of Arkansas.

Even at this early hour, a mix of stylishly-dressed individuals and outlandish conveyances crowded the busy streets. Steam-driven bicycles weaved between heavy horse-drawn carriages. The new horseless carriages, a novelty in St. Louis, were here in abundance. Fashionable ladies strolled under parasols, protected from the chill by fur wraps or heavy velvet cloaks. Gentlemen ranged from dandies in frock coats to roguish frontiersmen in dusters and sturdy boots. Here and there, a revolver peeked out from a holster beneath a man's coat, pressed against a brocade vest.

Saloons offering every kind of pleasure and vice flourished alongside factories and hothouse gardens. It was a dangerous city for a young girl all alone. Or it would be, if the girl wasn't carrying a small incendiary device in her pinafore. Greta came to the city prepared for anything. In this case, prepared meant carrying alchemical explosives.

Greta wrapped her wool cloak around her tightly, and peered in every direction, hoping to catch a glimpse of Kit's familiar face. She trudged through the streets, trying her best not attract attention. Making her way to the skyport was an arduous process. At least it presented a landmark which was impossible to miss. The enormous tower soared above the streets, punctuated with platforms at various angles and degrees.

She reached the entry gate for the skyport, where a pair of brass sentinels stood at attention. A fashionable group of travelers approached, each person dropping a punch card ticket into a slot in the gate. A series of loud clicks and taps erupted from the gate, and one of the 'gens would open it and let the people pass.

She had no idea how to get past the automata. She didn't have a ticket for any of the passenger ships. A captain or crew member, even a delivery person, probably had a similar punch card to gain access.

As she puzzled over this problem, a loud noise attracted her attention.

"Elias Hamm, get out of this saloon! I never want to see your face again!" The sound of chairs being toppled erupted from the building to her right. A scuffle had broken out inside The Rusty Sextant.

Greta scuttled next to the door. A tavern this close to the skyport was surely frequented by airship crewmen. If she slipped inside during the fray, maybe she could sneak off with a punch card without being noticed. She wasn't going to steal it, just borrow it for a bit. After she knew where to start looking for Kit, she'd return it to the tavern owner, saying she'd found it on the boardwalk outside.

Before she could make it through the doors, they flung open. A scraggly-looking man with brown hair and dusty clothes bounced out, landing in a heap on the street. A steam-powered carriage bore down on the crumpled lump of humanity, by all appearances having every intention of rolling right over him. Greta gasped and grabbed his arms, trying to drag the poor man out of harm's way.

"Sir! You -- ugh -- need to get up!" she yelled at the man, who groaned and then lunged at her.

The steam carriage narrowly missed clipping his heels as he tumbled onto the boardwalk next to Greta. It chugged down the street, pouring smoke out of the stacks lined up along the back. The driver turned a moment to shake a fist at the both of them, yelling something rendered unintelligible by the noise of the machine and the crowds.

Up close, the man wasn't as old as he'd seemed at first glance. He had the weathered look of a sailor or airship captain, and he was in desperate need of a bath and shave. But he couldn't have been much over thirty.

"Are you all right?" Greta asked.

"Nope." The man spat blood into the street, revealing at least one missing tooth. "But at least I won't be nursing a set of broken ribs for the next few months." He looked her up and down, still sitting with skirts splayed out across the filthy sidewalk.

"You all right yourself, missy? I'm much obliged, but you're naught but a girl."

"At least I didn't end up tossed in the street like yesterday's refuse!" She patted her pinafore, relieved to discover the glass ampoules of explosive formulae still tucked securely inside. It was too early in the day for an unexpected detonation.

"Now, now, there! No need to take offense. Believe me, if anybody knows better than to underestimate the power of a scraggly young girl, it's me. You ain't the first one to pull me out of a bad scrape. You just don't seem the type to be wandering the streets of Little Rock alone." He coughed and spat again.

"Think you can get to your feet, Mister. . . ?"

"Captain. Hamm. Elias Hamm, of the airship Whirlwind. And yes, I think I can manage. I ain't got that much whiskey in me, and Prinny's boys didn't do that much damage before giving me the heave-ho."

Greta frowned at the rumpled and ragged clothing. Airships were expensive, and he'd spoken with a pride that implied ownership.

"Should I have heard of this Whirlwind?" She scrambled to her own feet, and then helped pull Captain Hamm upright.

"The Whirlwind? It's the ship that made the Castille run in less than twelve days!"

Her blank stare was clearly not the response he'd hoped to elicit. Her indifference seemed to knock the wind out of him more than the toughs who'd kicked him out of The Rusty Sextant.

"Well, Captain Hamm, I don't suppose you'd be willing to do me a favor out of gratitude for having saved your life?"

"You didn't save my life. My ribs, maybe a broken leg."

"So you're not going to do me favor?"

"Depends. What's the favor, girl?"

"I need to get into the skyport."

"When? Why?"

"Right this minute, because my best friend has been kidnapped and the only clues to his whereabouts might be up there."

Captain Hamm glared at her for a moment, pressing his lips together as if considering what to say next.

"I can't get you in there right now, because I'd have to add you to my crew. And that would take a few days to get the paperwork run through. And before you ask, no, I'm not lending you my paperwork. Not that I don't trust you -- which I don't -- but it wouldn't do you no good anyhow. Even if the 'gens at the gate couldn't tell you're not me, you'd have to pass at least two human guards to get anywhere near the ships."

"But Captain, I need to find Kit! Every minute that passes means it's less likely I'll be able to catch up to whoever took him." Tears welled up in Greta's eyes. To be this close to a clue and have it pulled out from under her was unbearable.

"Now, hold on there, girl. I didn't say I wouldn't help you. I just said I couldn't get you into the skyport. If you tell me what you're looking for, I'll do the looking for you. I figure a broken rib is worth an hour or so of my time, at least."