Revolutionary Magic (with Bonus Content) (4 page)

The furnishings inside were modest, local make of sturdy oak material. I folded the letter into a square and tucked it into the top drawer of the solid cherry armoire in the corner of the room. My rapier and dueling pistol rested on the dull green divan against the far wall, while the chests that held my clothes were arrayed in the center.

From the front room, I could see a cellar door, stairs going up to a second floor, and two other rooms on my level: a bath and a kitchen. Exploration would have to come at a later time, when my existence wasn't being threatened. I changed outfits and collected my weapons before leaving the house.

The spymaster had taken up residence on the third floor of a low-rent apartment in the Southwerk area, near the bawdy houses. He'd picked a particularly defensible location. The only way up to his place was a narrow staircase that went up the side of the building and was in view of the rest of the street.

I had to assume the assassins lived within a stone's throw of the spy-master, a man whose name I had yet to uncover, because, as he'd said, they would know if I tried to come for him.

Finding the spymaster hadn't been that difficult. His English dripped with a Moscow accent. I canvassed the local grocers, asking if any foreigners bought excessive amounts of cabbage, a staple of the Moscow diet. When I'd lived in the capital, my Muscovite relatives often served cabbage-based soups for three meals a day. The only way to tell the difference between them was by the quality of meat, or lack thereof, since breakfast was served cold and with only vegetables.

I told the grocer, when I found the one the spymaster visited, that I was a relative from his homeland wanting to surprise him so he wouldn't inform the spymaster of my presence. Following him back to his apartment without being noticed was difficult. Then in my free time, I watched the apartment, noting the spymaster's comings and goings, hoping to get a glimpse of the assassins.

My lack of success with identifying them was the only thing staying my hand. At this point, I hoped that the spymaster had fabricated them to keep me at bay.

When I reached Southwerk, the late afternoon sky was streaked with bold clouds building into high castles from the sea. A fast moving airship soared northward, headed towards New York, its engine’s noise lost to the gathering winds.

Sailors from the port, probably from the slew of Dutch West India ships that had arrived this morning, filled Ram Cat Alley. Tongues wagged vigorously, turning the street into an otherworldly bazaar. Flint boys moved along the sidewalks, igniting the gas lamps that would give the city a warm evening glow.

The sailors, on their way to the street's many brothels, normally might have noticed me, but I'd hid my hair underneath a wide floppy hat and my womanly shape beneath a man's jacket and trousers. A dark cotton cloak hung from my shoulders, adding to the flair of mystery. It was more likely I'd be challenged to a duel based on the weapons at my hips than groped about my womanly parts.

The back of the spymaster's apartment overlooked Ram Cat Alley. If he looked out its single window, he would see me striding up the street while black steam carriages deposited Senators and the wealthier residents of the city at the Magdelen House, the highest caliber of the brothels.

What I needed to make my assault on the spymaster's apartment was a distraction. Not just any distraction would do. I needed something that would keep the spymaster's attention on the street below, but also draw the notice of the two assassins, assuming they existed.

When I decided on my plan, I moved right away towards a group of drunken sailors discussing the next tavern in which to spend their coin in slurred Dutch. Apple red noses announced the extent of their condition. Their captain probably hoped they would find a nice gutter to pass out in rather than return to the ship.

To my good fortune, a second band of sailors, English by their absurdly formal red coats with a pound of brass buttons glittering from sleeves and lapels, strolled out from the Maiden's Flower, its raucous music contrasting with their stolid features.

Slipping amid the Dutch, I waited until the English were passing and levered a particularly oblivious Dutch sailor into their path with the tip of my rapier. The Englishman barked back at the yellow-toothed Dutchman, which pulled the others together as if a rope had been cinched around both groups.

"Watch yer bloody steps," hissed the Dutch sailor.

"Unless you don't want to pump your bellows much longer, keep talking," said the Englishman.

Sailors from both sides made fists, or pulled leather belts to wrap around their hands. The sadistic ones had a piece of bolt iron to shove between their knuckles so when they hit a man they'd gouge out his flesh.

With an easy toss, I launched a few coins into their midst, aiming for the places between the two sides. The few who noticed bent over to retrieve the coins, knocking heads and elbows with the opposing. Growls and curses followed the scramble for lost monies.

The fight began without more prodding, when Yellow-teeth threw a right hook into the Englishman's jaw. After a long trip, sailors had an itch to tussle. The Englishman returned a blow to the midsection. Everything after that was pure chaos.

Before I got caught in the fight, I slipped into the alleyway, catching a sharp elbow to the ribs as punishment.

The fight drew the attention of Ram Cat Alley. Keeping to the shadows, I pulled my pistol and shot out the window of the Magdelen House. Glass exploded into the street, releasing the sounds of women screaming. Guards in buckskin coats with heavy wooden truncheons ran out of the high-class establishment, joining the melee in progress. I reloaded my weapon and shot out another window down the street for good measure.

Blown whistles announced the arrival of the city constables. With the seeds of chaos sown widely, I placed another shot in my pistol, snapped the frizzen into place, and moved quickly to the spymaster's apartment, hoping the noise from the battle would hide the squeak of warped wood as I climbed the steps.

At the landing, I pulled out the worn leather case that held my picks. The lock fell to my touch.

With pistol in right hand and rapier in left, I entered the apartment. It was dim inside, as the light was filtered by the linen curtains. Shadows hid everywhere. The shroud of a recently doused candle filled the air.

A flicker of movement flew through the doorway leading to another room. Ducking behind the couch, I crouched on one knee and rested my pistol on the velvet armrest.

By the blazes, I'd hoped to get a jump on him. I'd have to lure him out of the back room now.

The fighting outside hid everything but my breathing. It sounded like a steam engine in my ears. I thought I heard a foot-scuff in the other room and jerked my head to the right to listen without compromising my sightline.

Either he'd known I was coming, or heard me at the locks. A sliver of light shone through the gap of the slightly open door. I was trapped if the assassins had seen me.

I had a decision to make. If he had a weapon, he could wait until the others arrived. If he was unarmed, then waiting was in my favor since I held the only exit from the tiny apartment.

Crouching in a bent forward stance, my knees ached, but I was too bell-fired to care. The details of the apartment drew in as my eyes adjusted to the dim. A dog-eared book sat on a spartan table; I was doubtful that it was a Bible. A pair of leather boots rested in the corner next to a long musket rifle without a bayonet.

Clearly, by the silence, he'd decided waiting was his better option. I needed to goose him from his position, or determine if I were the one in danger.

"I'm afraid I can't let you leave alive unless you're willing to give yourself up to me," I called out.

I ducked lower when I heard a click. The shouts and continued whistles outside formed the backdrop to our standoff. I heard more clicks: the lever of a pistol falling into place, or maybe a lock. Then I heard something that sounded like wind, though I knew that room had no windows.

"Paul isn't the emperor anymore," I said, keeping my gaze roving around the room. "He's been deposed. You've no one to spy for anymore."

I regretted starting the riot outside. I couldn't hear enough to distinguish my foe. Two men, one with a deep voice, shouted at each other beneath the spymaster's window. One of them was demanding payment for damages. I ignored them and concentrated on what was going on beneath the shouts, the scraping of wood on wood, the soft pad of footsteps.

Was my adversary about to launch himself into an all-out assault on my position behind the couch, firing a pistol at close range? Did he possess some other weapon that would make my stand a foolish one?

My imagination worked against me, the memory of the strange gauntlet fresh in my mind. If we possessed simple trinkets that detected the presence of magic, maybe they held worse—things that could ignite flesh or cause a man to go mad.

The silence goaded me into action. I crept forward, keeping my pistol on the open door, wishing my weapon had more than one shot. I vowed to acquire a repeating pistol after the encounter, should I survive.

Standing straight, I pressed myself against the wall, leaning my ear in the direction of the open door, hoping to catch a sound that might betray his location. The only thing I could hear was the two men below, still arguing, though the din of battle had lessened.

One, two
, I counted, then burst around the corner, aiming my pistol into each corner. The bedroom was empty. A yellow-stained mattress lay in the corner, not a space beneath it to hide.

I spun around, and then again. Nothing. He wasn't in the room.
Nothing
was in the room except the mattress.

Suddenly the room felt unbearably warm, like a flash fever, and then it was gone. I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand.

Had I imagined the noises? Did he possess something that would spirit him away from this location?

My gut churned with the implications.

Keeping my weapons at the ready, I poked the mattress with the toe of my boot. The thin bedding held no secrets.

I returned to the other room. The book on the table was a collection of Slavic tales, collected and preserved for history. The inner page marked it as a product of the Russian Academy. I'd headed the academy until my exile, but I didn't remember commissioning this tome, which meant it'd probably come after.

A brief examination of the room left me with the impression that the spymaster did not leave except to retrieve more supplies. A pot of soup sat on the small stove, next to a few logs. The soup stunk of cabbage.

Beneath the table was a privy bucket. I left it in its place.

The musket leaning against the wall was a local make, a relic of the American Revolution. The Continental Army now used the newest repeating rifles.

Frustrated that the spymaster had somehow escaped me, I left the apartment, keeping my weapons drawn as I went down the squeaky steps. Back on the street, I took one long look in both directions before placing the rapier and pistol back in their holders.

Reluctantly, I made my way towards the Franklin Estate. Until the business with the Russian spymaster was concluded, I'd have to maintain a wary guard.

Chapter Four

Before I reached the estate, a black steam carriage with a government eagle crest on the door skidded to a stop in the street right near me. It was the newest design, and it allowed the driver to stay in the front of the carriage, out of the elements. My palm rested on the butt of my pistol.

A nearby gas lamp reflected against the window of the carriage. I squinted, hoping to see the driver, when the side door opened wide, revealing that scamp, Benjamin Franklin.

His winsome smile held none of the dark discussions we'd endured at the estate with Adam Smith. I saw no one else in the carriage.

"Climb in, my dear Kat," he said. "I'll explain along the way."

The steam carriage lurched forward as soon as my rear touched the stitched cushion. He sped away, heading east on Market Street, towards the Delaware River.

"What luck that I found you," he said. "Our dear friend, Smith, had left for errands when word arrived."

His words tumbled around in my head as I studied the interior. I was familiar with most steam carriage designs, but not one with such a strange dashboard.

"What are all these buttons for?" I asked.

"Buttons? Don't mind them. A gift from a friend." He waved his hand dismissively, barely keeping his eyes on the road while he dodged around horse-drawn wagons and pedestrians. "What matters is that we have a pattern."

I rested the tip of my forefinger on one of the buttons. "So I can press this one?"

His eyes widened in alarm. "By the blazes, no!"

"What would it do?" I asked.

"Djata gave me a chart, but I left it at the estate. For right now, just assume they could do
anything
," he said.

"Then what's the steam carriage for?" I asked.

Djata was a fellow inventor who worked on the other side of town. I hated to be a pest, but I was feeling sorely left out.