A Study in Ashes (59 page)

Catching her lip between her teeth, Imogen gathered up the bomb in one hand and the loops of chain in the other, and began walking the latticework beams to reach the spot directly over Anna’s head. Her body wanted to shake in fear because the pathway was barely as wide as her feet, but she promised herself she could tremble all she wished later. Right now she had to be as sure and graceful as a dancer.

And so far, Anna seemed oblivious to the fact that she was there. She had Bird on its back, one hand on its belly, and was considering her prize from one angle and then another. “To be honest, I rather hope my sister will prove stubborn.
There has been very little entertainment in this place since I came.”

Imogen cast a sidelong glance at Mouse, who was hiding in the vast rack of glass tubing. She could tell by the set of the creature’s ears and whiskers that it was intent, but there was no easy way for it to reach Bird. The outcome was up to her.

Leaning forward, Anna probed Bird’s eye with her tool. “You know there is a song about plucking larks, don’t you, little
alouette
?”

Imogen made it easily enough from her hiding place along the narrow beam, but then she had to make a right angle, stepping from one level to another about a foot below. It would have been nothing if there had been a rail to hold, but she had to force herself to concentrate completely on her feet.

Bird’s cries filled her head like the shattering of glass. Imogen wavered, but instantly tightened every muscle to keep herself straight and strong. It was a trick Evelina had taught her at school when they scrambled over logs and across streams on girlish adventures. Who would have guessed she’d be betting her life on those lessons now?

“There we go!” Anna held one of Bird’s emerald eyes to the light, turning it to and fro to admire the glitter. “Paste, of course, but still a pretty bit of glass.”

Mouse was on its feet, no doubt as appalled as Imogen. Bird’s agonized wail ripped through her like a blade. Devas didn’t have bodies according to Evelina, but here Bird’s flesh was vulnerable. Had the devas even truly understood physical pain before coming here? The idea made Imogen light-headed. Bird could die by inches if Anna willed it—and there was no doubt she had the appetite. As Serafina she had been the Whitechapel murderer, tearing woman after woman to shreds.

“There are no shops in the clock, of course, and nowhere to get such pretty baubles,” Anna went on. “And I like pretty things. My sister, of course, has no end of lovely clothes, while I’m forced to grab at what I can.” She dropped the emerald onto the plinth and leaned over the struggling bird.
“I’d love to make some emerald earbobs, but of course that means I’ll need two.”

The memory of her dreams—Anna’s memories—rose up like bile, all but blotting out Imogen’s sense of sight. Imogen forced herself to the present, to putting one foot before the other and calculating exactly how far to go before she was in place.
Six steps
. The air up here above the tubes of aether was warm enough that she was starting to perspire.
Five steps
. She’d taken off her shoes for a better grip, and the hard, ridged metal of the beams was hurting her feet.
Four, three
. She was in luck—there was a crisscross of beams right where she needed it, giving her a tiny bit more room to put her feet.
Two, one
. Imogen was in place.

Anna leaned over, intent on her prize. “Hold still, little Bird.”

Bird’s scream cut Imogen in two. Any qualms she’d had about her plan vanished. Imogen pulled the pin on Bucky’s bomb and swiftly lowered it, feeding the chain smoothly so the weight didn’t make it sway. She was perhaps twenty feet above her sister, and the task was dropping the device quickly enough before detonation. Free fall was too fast, and she didn’t have enough chain to go all the way. The question would be when to let go, and time was turning to toffee—each second stretching impossibly far.

Bird gave an unearthly shriek and Imogen flinched so hard she let go. The bomb dropped too soon, plummeting with a clatter. The chain snaked afterward, hitting the platform with a sound like icy rain. Anna looked down, saw the thing, then looked up to spot Imogen frozen above in horror.

“You stupid girl,” she snarled.

“Surprise!” Imogen whispered under her breath.

The bomb went off. It was Bucky’s device, so it wasn’t just a simple explosion. The shell cracked, releasing a bolt that shot upward at a deadly angle. It angled through Anna’s body from the front of the right hip through the back of her left shoulder, sprouting wickedly curved hooks that held the bolt in place. The other end of the bolt was tethered with a steel chain to the bomb itself, and that locked with steel
claws into the floor. Anna was immobilized, and Bird launched into the air, finally free.

Stunned, Imogen could do no more than look down at the impaled body of her twin. Anna whimpered faintly, the pliers dropped forgotten beside her. Blood and ripped flesh spattered the floor and surrounding metalwork like dark, living oil. Imogen’s stomach gave a dangerous flip, and she straightened, looking away. Her head felt stuffed with cotton, and she was unable to think.

Step by agonized step, she retreated from the beams, gathered her shoes, and worked her way down to where her sister lay. One-eyed and awkward, Bird had made it to roost beside Mouse, who was grooming each of Bird’s feathers with careful paws in a gentle ritual of comfort. The first thing Imogen did when she made it to the platform where Anna sprawled was gather up the green gem that Anna had dropped on the plinth and place it carefully inside her pocket. Then she picked up the pliers, thrusting them into the waistband of her skirt. She didn’t trust Anna even now.

Her sister’s lips peeled back from her teeth. There was blood in her mouth, turning the grimace to a bloodstained horror. “Happy?”

The statement snapped Imogen completely back to herself. “Damn you, Anna, I take no pleasure in this.” Imogen touched her sister’s face. It was cool, as if lack of blood was already robbing the skin of heat.

Anna flinched away from the touch. “You haven’t won yet.”

Imogen closed her eyes, shutting out Anna’s—her own—pain-racked face. “Please give in. I’ve won.”

“No, you haven’t.” Anna gripped her hand, digging sharp nails into Imogen’s flesh. “Your lover can’t kill me by proxy. It had to be by your own hand.”

“Why?” Imogen demanded.

“You’re not savage enough to live. If you were a real killer, you’d be strangling me right now.”

Imogen flung off Anna’s hand and sprang to her feet. “I’m done with you!”

“You’re not.” The spear had skewered her twin and it obviously
had hurt her, but in the real world Anna would have been dead. Here—Imogen couldn’t tell what was happening. Anna gave that bloody smile again, her features rippling like water stirred by wind. Imogen remembered Mouse’s words.
She’s having trouble keeping a face
.

Anna gave a cough, spitting out gouts of blood. “But I will grant you that was a good match.”

And with that, Anna and the bomb vanished like smoke.
And now that she’s figured out that I’m willing to hurt her, she’ll be harder than ever to catch
.

Word of a fracture among the leading members of the Steam Makers’ Guild, known to most as the Steam Council, has spread throughout world markets. The arrest of Mrs. Jane Spicer, the owner of Spicer Industries, for the outrage committed on the Palace of Westminster has done nothing to calm this unrest. It might be said that trading at the London Stock Exchange would be in free fall, except that it is uncertain if any traders, or any place where those traders traditionally gather to do business, remain.

—The Bugle

In an unanticipated move, all roads leading to and from the metropolis have been blockaded by the Gold King’s forces. Food, of course, is an issue, but also the supply of coal, gas, and other fuels to and from the city. Likewise, the industrial plants providing steam heat, gas, and any form of electricity have been shut down voluntarily or by force. Since it has long been the policy of the Steam Council to prevent the construction of private means of generating power, or indeed the sale of materials necessary to do so, the withdrawal of all trade in fuels will be felt throughout the city. Rationing of existing supplies is already being implemented. It is believed that this move is designed to force the populace to surrender the whereabouts of the rebels. The advent of colder weather is sure to play a role in the outcome of this tactic.

—The Bugle

London, October 10, 1889
EAST END DOCKS
2:10 p.m. Thursday

THE SOUND OF THE RAILS BENEATH THE UNDERGROUND
train filled Bancroft’s brain, taking room he needed for more useful thoughts. He squirmed against the seats, wondering who else’s backside had been there. Riding on public conveyances—even first-class ones—was an indignity he did not lightly endure. However, right now it was a damned sight safer than wandering the streets.

Nevertheless, some of the routes had been damaged in the bombing. A tunnel had caved in with at least one train still in it. Bancroft had read the death toll, but just as quickly tried to forget it. The only way to survive politics or war was to never look back.

The man in the seat facing Bancroft sneezed, but fortunately the fellow was reading the newspaper. It spared Bancroft the sight, if not the sound, of snuffling and honking into a handkerchief. The article on the page facing Bancroft was about the recent cholera outbreak caused by a sudden spike in the cost of clean water. Epidemics didn’t belong in an empire with so many resources. It was a symptom of pure greed, and for that reason alone, the Steam Council had to go. He just wished they’d hurry up about it.

Everything was poised exactly as they needed it to be: Green and Scarlet were defeated or absorbed by other barons, Keating and King Coal were snarling at one another like curs, and Violet—well, no one much cared what Violet did when it came to armed combat. All they needed was Gold and Blue to polish each other off, and the rebels would sail in and win the day.

The question was who would make the next move. Keating had bombed Green on the eighth. Two days had passed since. Two days of anxiety, two days of speeches, two days of frantic preparation. And two days of searching for Jeremy with no success. Bancroft had long nurtured a grudge against Alice, but in these last days his enmity had withered.
The poor girl was beside herself, and Bancroft found himself torn between searching for his grandson and doing his duty as a Baskerville. In the last few days, neither activity had met with much success.

Speculation about the delay had set the political hive buzzing. Bancroft had assumed Keating would make an immediate stab for Blue territory, but rumor had it that Tobias’s absence had caused problems. No one else understood Keating’s war machines the same way, and there had been unexpected delays pulling the Gold army together.

In Bancroft’s estimation, it was a textbook blunder. By dropping the bombs before he was absolutely ready to press his advantage, Keating had given the Blue King a gift-wrapped opportunity to marshal his own forces. That single mistake might just have cost Keating the war.

And it gave the rebels a chance, too. That meant Bancroft was in a race against time to find a source of coal. And that led him inexorably back to the East End warehouses to try his luck once more.

He exited the train and all but ran for the stairs to the surface. Trapped within the tunnel, the smoke and steam of the underground rail lines was choking. The overall effect was like smoking a cigar soaked in steaming piss.

Daylight made him squint as he emerged onto the street. He got his bearings and turned left, head down against a brisk wind off the water. It was a shabby neighborhood, with far more caps and coveralls than top coats and hats. He wanted to do his business and head home as soon as possible since there was a chance the trains could stop running at any time.

The street was crowded with newspaper boys, barrow-men, and idiots on soap boxes. Blue Boys swaggered in the streets, but always in groups of at least three.

“Get the
Prattler!
Latest edition!”

“Eels! Get your fresh eels! Good in a pie!”

“Long live Prince Edmond!” someone shouted from a window overhead.

It wasn’t the first time Bancroft had heard the cry. And while he kept his thoughts from his face, his heart surged
with excitement. Who knew the young man was a prince? And he’d come to Duquesne’s to thank Bancroft personally for his help—and most wondrous of all, Bancroft had actually liked him!

Here at long last was a master worthy of all his energy and ambition and, more important, an excellent chance for rewards. If the prince needed coal, Bancroft was damned well going to get it, regardless of the cost.

And he had reached the row of warehouses that had been his destination. His first thought had been to investigate a small Dutch firm he had overlooked on his first round of inquiries, but a sign down the side street caught his eye. It had no words—or at least none in English. There were three Chinese characters and a serpent painted in black on red. Bancroft recognized the sign for the Mercantile Fellowship of the Black Dragons of the Hidden Sea.