A Riddle in Ruby (19 page)

   
Aubrey Smallows

   
Journeyman Candidate

   
Boston Chapter

   
Dear Mr. Smallows:

After extensive consideration, the Board of Inquiry has found that you have engaged in gravimetric and calescent “experimentation” that is Unseemly and Reflects Poorly on yourself and this institution. You have endangered the reputation and lives of your fellow students and the faculty. You are hereby summarily expelled and must vacate the premises forthwith.

All journals, logbooks, and experimental apparatus must be surrendered to the bearer of this letter, the Master-at-Arms.

So ordered, this 16th day of November, 1718

Foreman Ambrosius Jecked, MCS, GmSS

T
he scullery maid's frock was loose around her hips. But a nice warm wrap and a bonnet to boot were also hanging there on the line, courtesy of Providence. After
Ruby slid into the servants' quarters through the attic, it was a simple thing to pop into a pantry for a quick change and a cloth bag for her things. She left a few pence on the pantry shelf because someone was getting in trouble for this. A wicker basket found its way into her hands on the way out the back door, and the butler even gave her a “hello, new girl” nod as she passed. Gwath Maxim Seventeen: “The Help Is Invisible to Everyone but the Help.”

She had traveled the rooftops to the other side of the city until she thought she could risk the streets again. In Crucible Square, the market heart of UpTown, it took her a scant five minutes before a beefy chemcandle dealer looked up from his bubbling pots to give her directions to the Friendly Dollop.

The one-story shop crouched at the end of an alley, nestled between two huge bakeries. The smoke in the air tasted like bread. The whole building was hardly wider than the subtly carved door, covered with scales holding heaping mounds of spices. She had to push hard on the heavy door to get inside. The smells hit her. Sage and
thyme, parsley and marjoram fought for pride of place, but they were quickly swept away by scents more foreign: cinnamon and clove and other wonderful odors that she could not even put names to. It smelled like the galley in the
Thrift,
except without the sweat or the pitch.

A grin crept onto her face, and she could not banish it.

“First time?” An old, weathered albatross of a woman perched on a stool behind the counter. “We most likely have what you desire.” She waved cheerily at the surrounding walls, which were completely covered by tiny drawers, most not more than the width of Ruby's palm. The drawers crept up into the shadows, all the way to the ceiling twenty feet above. Ladders attached to tracks were scattered around the room. Each one had a little pail for carrying spice hanging from its side. It was a jewel box of a room. Spices, especially from far-off places, could be incredibly expensive, or so Gwath was always telling her. No wonder the heavy door and the locks on the inside. This was an exquisitely crafted vault.

“This is your first time,” the woman repeated, and
she crinkled her eyes at Ruby. She was not big, not small, but whip thin. She rolled, barefoot and poised, out from behind the counter like she knew her business. This was someone who could do a lot more with her body than just climb up and down ladders.

Her smooth head made her eyes look bigger. “Might you close the door, please, miss?” She wiggled her toes. “My poor dogs cannot bark at the world as they used to do. They need a nice, cozy house.” It
was
warm in there. There were no windows save the little one in the door, but the air was surprisingly fresh. Ruby grinned again despite herself as she put her hand between two of three stout locks and closed the door, trapping the glorious smells in with them. When she turned back around, the old woman was holding out a wooden scoop, which held a pinch of deep red powder. “That is for you,” she said. Her eyes were lit and inviting. “I am never wrong.”

“For me?” Ruby asked. “I could not. I am certain that everything in this store is far beyond my means.” She curtsied. “My thanks, though.”

The woman chuckled again. “Your means? Girl, I am
not selling. I am giving. Would you refuse a gift freely given?”

“I would not, but my mistress—”

“Hospitality is very important.” She waggled the scoop, but nothing spilled. “If you partake of a woman's board, then you are safe, sworn to guest right. If you do not eat—” She shrugged eloquently. The hand holding the scoop was calloused and ancient, but those patches were in the same places that Ruby had earned hers, and not by sorting sage.

This was a test.

Ruby held out her hand, and the woman poured the little touch of spice into it as if it were gold dust. Ruby licked it. It rolled dark fire across her tongue. The flavor was hot and rich and danced from the front to the back of her mouth and back again. Her eyes watered, and she saw stars for a moment. She managed to gasp, “Thank you.” A nod told her she had passed the test, whatever it was.

But there was no welcome, no change in mood. Ruby stalled. “What do you call that?”

The crow's-feet around the woman's eyes were deep. “It is powdered rocoto, a pepper from far to the south.” The powder went back into its drawer, which sealed with a faint pop. She stepped back behind the counter. “Now then, how may we serve you today? Shopping for your mistress, you said?”

“Well, in a manner of speaking,” Ruby said. This was the tender spot. “She wishes to have Cook make an extra special dish for my lord, and a dear friend recommended yours above all other shops.”

“Our clientele are very loyal.” She cleaned the scoop with a mixture from a small vial next to her. The whole feel of this was strange. The room felt
aware,
as if it were watching her. Something was going to happen. Ruby cleared her mind and paid attention. She caught the woman looking at her out of the corner of her eye, and the glance flayed her open. “Who is our champion then? Sending us new spice buyers when times are hard?”

“His name is Henry Collins.” She almost missed it. The woman's hands on the brush tensed for just a moment. This was the proper place.

“Who?” the woman said.

“Henry Collins,” Ruby repeated. “Tall? Almost weedy? He is a good friend to my lady's family and recommended she send someone here to sample the spices.”

The woman's voice was neither warmer nor colder, merely curious, but waves of caution rolled from her. “And what is your name, miss?”

“Rebecca. Rebecca Tunstall.” She improvised.

“Well, Rebecca”—she smiled—“I am sorry, but the name rings no bells. Oh, well. We are still delighted your employer is giving us her custom. What does she wish to purchase?”

“Saffron,” Ruby said, to buy more time. There was no secret handshake, no checking at the door for listeners before settling down to secret business. What was she missing?

“I'm sorry, we are out. Fagle's Spices, perhaps? Three blocks over, not quite the selection.” Her face was still friendly, but there was no inner warmth. Her eyes were flint.

“Could I leave a note?” She sounded stupid, but she did not know what else to say.

The old woman began cleaning up her counter with a significant look, arranging sealed bottles of beautiful smells. “We are closing now, and I must ask you to leave. Or should I summon a constable?”

That danced on her spine. “No. No, thank you.” Waves were crashing in her ears as she made toward the door and the street. Through the little window in the door she saw it was snowing again. There was a click and a creak, and the floor disappeared under her feet. And then the snowing and the door and all the little drawers were moving upward very quickly, and she fell through into darkness below.

November 3, 1705

All Reports of the Events occurring on or around the Island H., including any references to Marise Fermat or the man now called ‘Wayland Teach,' or their offspring, are to be excised from the Society's records. So ordered.

—Invisible College Exec. Order 502

Signatory: Godfrey Boyle, MCS, GmLS

R
uby held her hand in front of her face again. She still could not see it. She tried to keep calm and remember Gwath Maxim Number Twenty-three, which reminded you that “Sight Is for the Lazy.”

She had put that maxim to use while she waited for whoever owned the cage to introduce themselves. The bars were not bars, but a small crosswork of metal. Sharp metal; she sucked the blood from her index finger.
The pen was square, as wide as twice her outstretched arms on all sides. No keyholes. She wasn't even sure there was a door. The floor of the cage was bouncy, like a sail packed tight with cotton, but it had resisted all her attempts to cut it or puncture it. The air was cool. It smelled like stone, so she was in a basement, most likely carved out of the Lid itself.

The cage was unfurnished, except for a small built-in seat in the corner. When she raised the top of the seat and the smell came out, she realized what the seat was for. It was foul, but she was struck by a more important thought: If inmates were using a privy, chances are they spent more than a few minutes in this cage. Ruby didn't like that one bit.

In fact, she liked absolutely nothing about her present predicament, and she was beginning to wonder if there was anything left in the world that she did like. Certainly not kidnappers, trapdoors, secret societies, or gearbeasts. Or people who betrayed you. The box inside her, where she put all those distracting thoughts and feelings, down at the bottom of her belly, began to quiver. She had always thought of it as an iron-banded, triple-locked strongbox,
sturdy and reliable. But all manner of terrible things were seeping through the hinges: fear, doubt, loneliness. She clamped her arms around her waist, clenched shut her eyes, and willed them back into the box. After a few minutes she stopped breathing heavily, and she didn't want to scream anymore. The box was still there, though, wriggling, just on the other side of her belly button.

The room was deeply quiet, and the air was still. She had called out a few times, and her voice had not come back to her. Whatever was beyond did not reflect sound.

So she counted seconds, as you were supposed to do. A cell this dark and this quiet was meant to disorient and weaken, and one of the few weapons at her disposal was to keep a hard leash on time. Gwath had always insisted on this point and would make her start all over again if while walking a wall or copying a letter, she could not accurately report how long she had been at it. He had scoffed at watches and chronoms. Timepieces were for the weak.

The only true measure of time, he said, was the beating of your heart. There was never a maxim for that, though.

At 572 heartbeats, a slot in the darkness outside the cage opened, and light tore in. She held her hand up to her eyes. The cage was an island in the center of a completely empty round room. There was not a stick of furniture to be found save a tall cabinet in the corner. Bare stone walls reached up into the dark. The voice did not come from the slot. It came from everywhere. It was old, male, and spoke with a French accent.

“Who are you?” It was a deep voice and crept into her bones from above, below, and all sides.

“My name is Rebecca Tunstall. Why are you doing this to me?” She allowed a hint of panic to creep in, and a trace of tears. Under the circumstances, it would have been harder to keep the panic out.

“Why do you think?”

“I don't know! Did I do something wrong? If I did, I'm very sorry!” The important thing was to stay with your first mask. Don't let it drop. If she changed to another character, then there would be no reason to believe that she was not lying again. “I didn't mean it. Please don't be angry with me.”

“Why did you lie?”

That put things in a whole new light. What did the voice mean? Lying about who she was? About Henry Collins? “I am not certain I understand. I spoke no lie. Can you tell me what you mean?”

Silence. The slot slammed shut. She heard faint voices on the other side of that wall. One might have been the woman from the shop. They were arguing. That was something at least.

Seven hundred thirty.

Four thousand forty-one.

She used the privy. The faint breeze and deep silence emerging from it told her that it was probably a long drop from here, maybe down through one of the support pillars of the Lid. The thing was built out of stone, anyway, and so narrow that even she could not fit herself into it. No escape there.

Was her father in a place like this?

Was Gwath on the bottom of the sea?

Nine thousand four hundred eight.

“Hello?” She wanted to stay silent, to show her strength, but doubt kept at her. Would Rebecca Tunstall have been so staunch? Should she have been weeping and wailing since falling into this accursed pit?

“Hello? Out there?”

There was no answer.

“Please! I'm very thirsty!” She was. She was bone dry, and her tongue was chalk. More than that, though, she was late. She had wasted far too much time with Athena and the Bluestockings, and the only cake she had for her trouble was the full knowledge that they were all laggards and shirkers. They cared not a whit for her father or the crew, only for what they could craft her into. She dug her fingernails into her hand. This was supposed to have been the place where she finally got help! She had no time for sitting around in odd little corners of UpTown. Her father was in danger, and somehow this, this
shopkeeper
had smelled her out the way a first mate weeds out a soft-footed sailor.

The slot opened again.

“Who are you?”

Ruby cleared her throat. “May I have some water?”

There was no answer. To hell with it.

“My name is Aruba Teach.”

After a moment the voice replied, “The Royal Navy is looking for someone named Aruba Teach. There are handbills and such about.”

“That is me. And yes, the navy is looking for me, and the Reeve, and toss in every bravo, princock, and bracket face from here to Chester for good measure. You've won the prize. You have me. I cannot wait around in this cage for the rest of my life.”

“Why not?”

“I have things to do.”

The voice did not sound amused. “What brought you to this place, Aruba Teach? Why would a fugitive from justice seek refuge in
une
é
picerie
, a spice shop, of all places?”

She saw no reason to lie. If the truth was what this old voice wanted, she would give it to him. “A young man named Henry Collins helped me escape from capture. He was dressed as a midshipman but turned on his fellows
when they were going to stuff me in a sack.” It felt good to finally stop lying.

“Stuff you in a sack?”

“They didn't want me to run again, I suppose.”

“Where is this famous savior now?”

“Henry?”

“As you say.”

She chewed her lip. He was supposed to be here. He had asked her to come here.

“He is not here now?”

“I asked you where he was.”

Stranger and stranger. Henry had sent her here. He had called it a refuge. If they did not know where he was, he might be in danger. A chill passed across her shoulders. What if these men were not Henry's friends? What if the Reeve had found out this hidey-hole and had put its own men in to catch stray flies like her?

“Where is this Henry Collins? I will not ask you again.”

It was true. It was true. It all made sense now. She had fallen into a nest of reeves, and it would only be a
matter of time before Wisdom Rool came and took her and locked her in some strange tower for all of her life. Well, she would not give up her friends. Henry
was
her friend, she realized. Perhaps her only friend, along with Cram. And Athena? Ruby should have said good-bye.

“You are Reeve, aren't you?”

“Very nice. Question the questioner. Someone has taught you well. Perhaps these reeves of which you speak. But I am not one easily distracted.”

“Someone has taught you well, too. You did not answer my question.” She was free. She could play this game, and play it to the hilt. It would all end up the same anyway.

“Miss Teach, or so you call yourself.” What did
that
mean? “I am in a predicament. Your grit is evident. You sit in that cage as if it were a throne room. Most begin pouring out their secrets after only half an hour.”

“This bouncy floor is quite comfortable. You should make it a harder place if you want people to talk.”

“You see? This is
précisement
of which I am speaking. You have some sand, young woman.
Tr
è
s, tr
è
s f
é
roce
.”

“You can't sweet-talk me into telling you what you want to know either.”

“Oh, with this I am beginning to come to terms.” From behind her, in the walls came the sound of ratchets and gears all at once. It was loud. “So, I must resort, as much as it pains me, to other means.” Illuminated in the half-light of the slot, the massive ornate cabinet began to shudder. Heat hit her like a wave. Pipes ran into it from several places in the wall, and steam rose from its top. It reminded her, in an odd way, of Madame Hearth's samovar. It was much larger, though, and the door on its front was opening.

Inside was a man shape made of shining rods and tubes that flowed red and orange. With a deep, spinning sort of sound, and it stood. The copper liquid moved like water in a busy creek, and the mechanical flexed its metal hands. It turned toward her. Its face was a featureless smooth mask, cast from the same clear metal.

“His name is Agrippa. He is, alas, one of my failed experiments.” The man-shaped thing stepped out of its cabinet, and the stone on the floor blackened and sizzled.
It smelled like burning hair. The voice tsked. “I do regret it, a miracle of liquefied copper and magnesium, pulsing to and from a synthetic braincase. He has a rudimentary awareness and will follow my commands. An example: Agrippa, move into the cage.”

The metal man began walking forward toward the cage and toward Ruby. The heat was fierce, and she scrambled back, putting her shoulders against the wall. When Agrippa reached the latticework, it did not stop. The body cracked like ice or glass, and the tiny pieces crawled through the gaps in the cage, to come back together on the other side.

It stood before her. The orange and red streams of liquefied metal fused and separated in rhythm, like a pulse. At another time it might have been beautiful. Now it was simply terrifying.

“Astonishing, isn't he? I was very proud of him, but he has a difficult flaw. Though he will follow my commands, he has from birth displayed a pronounced dislike of humans. He takes joy in hurting them.” The thing stared at her. She could feel it looking, even if it did
not have any eyes. Menace rolled from it in waves.

The voice was iron as it continued. “I will ask you one more time. If you do not answer to my satisfaction, I will ask again, but this time Agrippa will help me. If you refuse then, I will close this slat, go have a cup of tea, and we will remove your ashes when he is done playing with you. Where is the one you call Henry Collins?”

“I tell you, I do not know.”

The voice sighed. “Very well. Agrippa, please ask Miss Teach about Henry Collins.”

Her eyes clouded as the thing moved forward, with steam or with tears she did not know. As it reached out its hand, flames ran across the fingers and palm.

She thought of her father. She thought of Gwath. She thought of Athena. She would miss them.

And then the world went dark.