Authors: Sharon Joss
Steam Dogs (23 page)
After a night spent dozing fitfully in a doorway, the sound of
horse traffic along Stebondale Street startled Roman from a fitful doze. Henry,
who’d spent the last few hours curled up in a warm ball on his lap, stretched
and gave him a quizzical look as if to say,
what’s
next?
Roman brushed the worst of the dried mud and dog hair from his filthy
clothes and headed south at a brisk pace.
The sun was just peeking over the horizon when he reached the
Steam Dog Tavern. The front door was unlocked, and at this hour, the place was
empty, except for Welsie, who was seated at one of the tables in front of the
fireplace, sipping hot tea from a crockery mug. She turned, her face pinched
and wan.
“Are you all right? We were so worried about you.”
The ‘
we’
was like a
knife in the gut. He stepped to the fireplace and turned his back to the
roaring flames, savoring their heat. “Where’s Atters?”
“Today is the airshow.”
He snorted. “He left you alone? You can’t stay here."
Her knuckles were white where she gripped her cup of tea. "I'm
not ready to leave just yet." She wouldn't look at him. “I want to talk to
you about--.”
"Hamm is dead." He could see the pain in her, and his
own heart ached.
She met his eyes with a steely expression. "Like Archie, eh
Roman?"
A wave of nausea washed through him at the memory, and he sank
down into a chair across the table from her. She didn't know. She couldn't. He
hadn't told her, he was certain. No, she was speaking of loss, and of losing Hamm
and Archie both. And that he'd been there both times. Of course she must blame
him.
"You can't sit around here waiting for Hamm. If whatever that
thing was that attacked you last night does comes back…."
“Simon thinks he won’t
come back until after dark.” She examined her hands. “I know you don’t like
him, but if Simon hadn’t come along when he had, that thing would have killed
us both.”
Roman’s face burned. “He's not your friend. Simon Atters is not
who you think he is.”
“He’s asked me to go away with him.”
He clenched his fists. “You can't.” He pulled the telegram out of
his pocket and handed it to her. “You don’t even know him. He’s
dangerous—a thief and a liar.”
He watched as she read the contents of the telegram. She looked so
pale. For the first time since he’d known her, the girl seemed fragile.
Her hands trembled, but her expression changed to one of anger. “There
is no proof he’s done anything.”
“Someone broke into Alderman Fitzhugh’s home in Millwall two
nights ago. Climbed up a drainpipe to the second floor and got in through a
locked window. He took more than five hundred pounds out of the man’s wallet
while he was sleeping. He also stole a matched set of dueling pistols from his
locked safe.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re jealous. He saved your life--both our
lives, and you can’t stand it.”
“That’s not true. I care about you, Welsie. I don’t want to see
you taken in by this scoundrel.”
“What would Emmet Fitzhugh be doing with that much money? He probably
lost it at the fights, if he even had it in the first place.”
He took a deep breath.
It’s
for her own good.
“A windup bird was left on the dresser. Same sort of
mechanics as that model airship he gave you.”
Red splotches bloomed on her cheeks. “If you’re so certain he did
it, then why haven’t you arrested him?”
A peculiar thought dawned on him. At this point, he was probably
more of a wanted man than Simon Atters, the Cavalier Thief of Brussels. “Why
are you defending him?”
She glared at him but said nothing. He remembered well that mulish
look of hers as a child. Her mind was already made up.
He sighed. “If you don’t believe me, why don’t you ask him about
it?”
“All right, maybe I will.” She moved toward the kitchen. "I
think you should leave, now, Roman. None of the regulars have come in this
morning, so I might was well close the place up for the day." She was
angry now.
“You can’t stay here.”
“Stop telling me what to do! I know I can’t stay.” She twisted her
apron in her hands. “Just go, Roman. Please.”
"Allright, I'll leave you to it, then."
She followed him to the door and he waited until he heard the bolt
slip into place behind him. Feeling somewhat relieved, he hunched his shoulders
up and turned north, toward Ferry Road. No doubt she would go straight to the
airfield and demand an explanation from Atters.
He paused at the intersection, debating whether or not to wait and
follow her. Already the road to the airfield was overflowing with foot and
carriage traffic. Even if that ghastly creature came back, the crowds would
protect her, and she'd be safe enough at the airshow. With the Queen in
attendance, there would be plenty of police on hand--.
His stomach lurched.
That's it.
His mind raced through the
possibilities. Of course. No other reason for a conspiracy with the police and
the Cubitt Town Council unless there was something big happening on the Island.
That something was the air show. And the Queen--.
Good Lord, Sir Magnus is
going after the Queen!
The more he thought about it, the more certain he became. He had
to stop them--but how? The police were searching for him. He had to warn the
Queen’s guards that the former royal wizard had unleashed some sort of evil
magick loose on the Isle of Dogs, and until it was contained, Her Royal
Highness should not set foot on the Island.
He began to run.
It was nearly noon by the time Welsie headed up the road toward
the air hangars. She'd had to wait until Cully finished repairs to the back
door. The roads were crowded. Everyone, it seemed was on their way to the air
field. The stands which had been set up along West Ferry Road were already
filled with people, and as she tried to cross against the tide of horse and
foot traffic, she was nearly trampled by a pair of frothing bays pulling an
elegant clarence filled with toffs. Only the shouts of the angry driver saved
her from disaster.
She was so distracted,
she hardly noticed. Roman’s visit had upset her—almost more than Hamm's
attack the previous night. For the first time since he’d come back from the
war, Roman had that wild look about him. War sickness, Mr. Crowley called it.
Battle fatigue. Whatever it was, his wild eyes and strident voice seemed a far
cry from his usual steady demeanor. She’d never known him as anything but a
kind man. His accusations about Simon was so out of character from the man
she’d known all her life.
It can’t be true.
Her hand strayed to the
crumpled telegram in her apron pocket.
I’ve got to speak to Simon about this
.
The men had taken an instant dislike to each other, that was all.
Out of character for Roman, but Simon almost seemed to enjoy taunting the
inspector. She had not heard either of them say anything specific, but she’d
often enough emerged from the kitchen to see them exchanging hard glares.
When she reached the first barricade, Sergeant Roper stopped her.
“Sorry, Mrs. Foine, no civilians beyond this point.”
“It’s all right, Sergeant, Captain Paretti invited um, Hamm and I,
to join him as his guests at the hangar to watch the show.” She gave him her
best smile. “Hamm is busy right now, but he’ll be along later.”
“Oh. Okay then.” He stood aside and let her pass through.
Overhead, the two French ships hovered gracefully over the field.
As the band played a slow waltz, the beautiful white
Le Balene
and the aerodynamic
Faucon
de Ciel
performed a perfectly choreographed minuet.
People were so captivated by the French ships, she could barely
make headway. Even before she reached the hangar, she spotted the
Il Colibri
hovering at the edge of the
airfield. She craned her head for a better view.
There’s Arvel and Simon in the cockpit.
She waved, but lost as she was among the mob, they didn’t see her.
She moved closer to the viewing platform, where she had an unobstructed view,
and as the French ships drifted back to the hangar, the
Il Colibri
claimed the field.
The Italian ship
moved
gracefully, hovering just like its hummingbird namesake. The propellers spun at
different speeds and directions, thrusting the glittering green ship forward,
backward, and in pinpoint pirouettes before stopping; then moving on to hover
in a different spot.
At one point, the gondola was lowered, and two crewmen, standing on
the ground, stepped into it while the ship hovered motionless some forty feet
above. Once inside, the gondola was raised up to the belly of the ship as it
moved to another location, and then lowered the gondola so the men could exit
as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Finally, the ship hovered over a wide-mouthed oaken tank filled
with water. The side door of the
Il
Colibri
opened and there stood Simon, quite dashing in a man’s bathing
costume. Her hand flew to her mouth when she realized what he was about to do.
A moment later, the crowd gasped.
No! It’s impossible!
The breeze had stiffened. The slightest miscalculation and Simon
would miss the vat of water and be killed. The ship hovered, fighting to hold
its position. In the silence, Simon’s voice could be clearly heard.
“
Higher, Arvel, take me
higher.
”
The ship slowly rose a few feet higher, until Simon shouted,
"
There. Right there!"
Simon loosed his greenfire and the flames grew and spread until
the entire ship was engulfed in a green blaze.
The crowd's gasp was echoed by Welsie's own.
And then he jumped.
Sir Magnus Vetch made certain he arrived at the reserved viewing
platform early enough to get the choicest seat. While the front row was
reserved in case the royal family made an appearance, no one was absolutely
certain about if or when Her Royal Majesty would attend.
With little effort on his part, Sir Magnus managed to suggest that
Mayor Smythe-Wilkins of Millwall seat him on the aisle just behind the Mayor in
the second row, in front of Alderman Fitzhugh. On his right was the Belgian
Ambassador and his wife. He was near enough to the stairs that once the Queen
arrived, she would practically be
forced
to acknowledge him. It was perfect.
He wouldn’t need the draugs after all. He’d never cared much for
ships or water transport. His water magick had come to him through the wizard’s
kiss he used after vanquishing his enemies.
He sat back in his chair, his arms crossed in front of him. The wait
was nearly over.
Seventeen years ago, the Queen had banished him from the palace,
and not one day of his life since then had been easy. Following the orders of
his Queen and Countrymen at Balaclava had earned him nothing. Instead, she’d
stripped him of his title as Royal Wizard and dismissed him as if he were
nothing. He’d been evicted from his comfortable London apartment and his
friends and colleagues had all turned away from him.
Victimized by rumors and innuendo, they’d pensioned him to the
Mellish estate on the Isle of Dogs, no doubt thinking to keep him as far from
the palace as possible without actually sending him into exile. The injustice
of it had twisted like a knife every minute of his life since then.
But once he arrived on this forsaken stretch of stinking marshland,
he’d focused his energies on wooing the local politicians, donating funds to
support public works on the island; he even helped to raise funds to build the
new airship hangers. When asked, he accepted every invitation, befriended every
mayor, alderman and councilman, and eventually either bought or wormed his way
into local politics.
To his surprise, the residents accepted him. Not as a local, of
course, but there was a certain prestige granted by the islanders to former
members of the royal court. He certainly wasn’t the first exile pensioned off
to the Isle of Dogs. And although the crown had stripped him of his investiture,
the islanders continued to address him as Sir Magnus, and he saw no reason to
correct them.
And now his time had come round again, as he knew it would. The island’s
airfield was the perfect venue for an air show. The idea, which he’d delivered
as a suggestion to Mayor Smythe-Wadkins of Millwall, had lit a fire under every
mayor and councilman on the Island. Timed to coincide with the Queen’s
birthday, she could not possibly leave for her annual holiday at Osborne House
without making an appearance; especially once Germany and France had agreed to
send crews. That other countries had decided to attend, and the Italians
offered to provide a fireworks display merely added to the draw of the event.
The missing ferryman
draug
had returned just before dawn, a saber embedded in the bone between his
shoulder blades. He’d been unable to reach the sword, so Raikes wrested it out
before chaining him in the hold of the
Slough
Maid
with the others.
On closer examination, the cutlass proved to be a standard
policeman’s cutlass, with the officer’s badge number engraved on the guard
above the grip. No wonder the Inspector had been so agitated. Inconvenient that
the he’d escaped and presumably remained among the living; but Sir Magnus was
confident that Greenslade would soon be out of the picture.
Superintendent Lloyd had always been ridiculously easy to
mesmerize. And his suggestion to Wickes that Greenslade had a known addiction
to laudanum stretching back to his military days ensured that the policeman’s
accusations would not be believed. Although easily disproved, the lie was only
needed for a few days, after which the Inspector would no longer be a problem.
And after all, the
draugs
still
needed to be fed.
After some consideration, Sir Magnus now believed the ferryman had
jumped from
The
Slough Maid
because the earth magick that he used to create and
control them was less powerful on the water, and because the prolonged strain
of controlling all the
draugs
over an
extended period had been a greater drain than he’d expected. His mistake had
been in thinking John Raikes could exert the same level control over them that
he could. He was confident that long as he was aboard
The Slough Maid
, he would command complete control of the pilot and
crew.
Additionally, the mere act of sending Raikes’ pets back to the
earth had given him a new surge of power. He felt better immediately after
doing so. But just as
draugs
had
their own magick, there was something in Hamm Foine that resisted him. Every
time he gave the ferryman an order, he’d been slow to respond. Not good, but he
was a native Islander, so perhaps he had some sort of latent native magick
which gave him a measure of resistance. If Sir Magnus hadn’t needed a river
pilot so bad, he’d put Foine down just as he had the beasts.
Mayor Smythe-Wilkins tapped him on the arm.
Standing next to him stood a uniformed officer of the royal house
guards. “This is Sir William Fourstairs; Her Majesty’s Social Secretary. Sir William,
this is Sir Magnus Vetch, a patron of the Island and the finest man I’ve ever
known.”
Sir Magnus returned the secretary’s small bow with a slight nod.
“Please to make your acquaintance, Sir. Is Her Majesty planning to attend our
little fete?”
“The royal coach will be arriving within minutes.”
A thrill ran through Sir Magnus.
A murmur in the crowd caught their attention. Everyone on the
viewing platform tensed.
The little green Italian ship hovered motionless, high over a vat
of water, while a man stood in the open doorway of the cockpit, looking as if
he was about to jump. Without warning, the would-be jumper was suddenly
engulfed in green flames. As with every other person on the platform, Sir
Magnus gasped.
A fire mage!
Sir Magnus stood and gaped in astonishment. This was impossible.
He had been introduced to the Italian airship captain, not long after they
arrived. He did not recognize this man as part of the crew.
Seconds later, the blazing man leapt from the ship and plunged
into the small tank far below. The flames disappeared as the diver surfaced,
pumping his fist in the air. The crowd roared its approval.
Sir Magnus fought his way off the platform, his heart pounding
with unbridled fury. How could this be?
How
could a fire wizard have come to England without his knowledge?