The Transference Engine (25 page)

My trusted balloon pilot Jimmy Porto sat atop a flat rock nursing a cup of hot liquid. Other rocks and stumps provided seating for a dozen men in a circle facing the fire—the coals banked against the summer warmth, but ready to burst into flame when they needed it to cook or warm them. Their coats and trousers may have grown threadbare, but they were meticulously clean.

All of the women and children had retreated along the slope of the knoll into the bardos, their curious round-topped and gaily painted wagons that were both home and transportation.

Jimmy nodded toward an older gentleman, perhaps in his fifties, judging by his grizzled hair and the lines around his dark eyes. I nodded to him with proper respect for an elder and a leader. He alone would decree if I stayed or left immediately.

“Old friend, you may join us,” he said in Romany.

Ish cocked his head in puzzlement. “Some of those words sound familiar, but his accent is strange,” he said in English.

The Rom all smiled in a knowing way.

“Perhaps because we share distant ancestors,” Jimmy said in his perfect English with only a hint of an exotic accent.

“But I'd heard you hailed from Egypt. I am not Egyptian,” Ish protested.

“And neither are we. But the popular belief serves us as well. We remain mysterious and apart to suit their prejudices. This allows us to retain our culture and language.” The elder pulled out a pipe and fragrant tobacco. So did the other men.

As part of the ritual of joining, I sat next to my friend Jimmy, with Ish to my left, and accepted a puff from his pipe. My breeches allowed me to associate with men where Romany women were excluded. In their eyes, I was female and yet not. I was a friend and a visionary. A savior and hero.

Back in 1818, I worked in the kitchen of a French vicomte while Miss Mary and her son stayed in a slovenly inn in the village. I listened more than I worked and found evidence of a loose association between the local lord and Lord Byron. The vicomte owned
all
of Byron's books, even the secret ones. I learned much, including plans to murder an entire tribe of Rom gathered for a reunion. The vicomte had gloried in his plans to watch the light of life leave the eyes of small children.

Half a mile ahead of the marauding necromancer, I'd urged the Rom to flee in a mixture of French, Italian, German, and English, not yet having learned their language. In the organized chaos of women throwing things into the bardos while men caught and hitched the horses, I'd taken one of their sturdy little mountain ponies and ridden back toward the enemy. The moment I caught sight of the wavering torches and shouting men, I showed myself and headed north and west, away from the mountain pass. The necromancer led his besotted army in pursuit of me.

I led them a merry chase, the pony sure-footed with a smooth gait, through forests and up rocky hills. When I guessed that the Rom had enough time to flee into obscurity, I abandoned the pony, slapping his rump into a frightened run, and hid in a crevice of tumbled boulders.

The marauders stomped right passed me three times as the sharp rocks pressed into my back and my legs where I crouched, twisted, with muscles screaming for release. They'd lost much of their drunkenness, but still smelled as if they'd swum in vats of liquor. Eventually, they gave up. The pony was long gone.

At dawn, I walked back to the village and took Miss Mary, her baby, and her new husband to safety, elsewhere.

Chapter Twenty-Six

I
SH LOOKED LIKE HE'D reject the pipe offering of his left-hand neighbor.

“Do it,” I muttered to him. “One puff only. It makes you part of the group, temporarily.”

Looking askance, Ish pretended to take a deep inhale and then immediately released a tiny stream of smoke on a series of hacking coughs.

Laughter rippled around the circle. When it died down, the elder—he would not part with his name easily and would not appreciate me using it—held up a crockery jug. “Perhaps this will soothe your throat.”

Ish's eyes opened wide in horror.

“It won't kill you,” I said and took a long gulp from the jug, then passed it to Ish. “You need only sip. But it is important to them that you do.”

“I only do this for access to that crystal,” he replied before tipping the jug up and pouring a little into his mouth. He sloshed it around his teeth and tongue a bit before swallowing. Then he gasped, mouth agape on a long exhale. “That is marvelous! Better than twenty-year-old scotch whiskey.”

“Magic,” I replied.

The men all smiled and relaxed. “What is this crystal the distant cousin speaks of?” Jimmy asked.

“The woman who held me captive and tried to drain the life out of me wore it on a fine gold chain.”

Jimmy nodded in acknowledgment. “It looked valuable. I regret that we did not relieve her of the weight of it in recompense for the crime against you.”

Ish blanched that we had been so close to his prize and not taken it.

“It is very valuable to one who knows its purpose and how to use it,” I said.

“How much value?” the elder asked, eyes bright with greed.

“I would pay a year's salary for it,” Ish said.

Raised eyebrows and whispered comments passed around the circle.

“It has mystical properties that are beyond value,” I interjected lest these men get ideas of stealing it—if they could find it—and selling it to someone else with more money. Like Lord Ruthven.

Or Father Rigby.

The reverend surely would want to keep the crystal out of Ruthven's hands. If he were indeed an agent of the archbishop and had not fallen into the traps of power promised by necromancy—a year on the streets could do that to a young man. I feared Drew had fallen into those traps out of boredom.

“What is its purpose?” Jimmy brought the speculation back to where it belonged.

“It is said that the ancient goddess Kali stores the souls of those who have been murdered in her honor in the depths of that crystal,” Ish said flatly. “I am a scientist and do not believe this. But others do and wish to capture souls for themselves. The crystal would aid them well in this horrible practice.”

The Rom, one and all, made warding gestures against the evil lurking within and around those words.

“Please reassure me that you are not a Thuggee,” I whispered in Latin, a language I knew Ish used in his work but I doubted the Rom understood.

“Thuggee!” the elder pounced on the one word he knew. “What does this have to do with the cabal of death? What evil have you brought among us?” He half stood in outrage, ready to ban us from the fire circle. Or stone us.

“We seek to end the murderous cult that enthralls too many who seek magical power in taking lives,” I said firmly.

The elder sat down. “Then we will assist you. This death cult defiles this land. If you cannot root it out and destroy them, we must leave England. All the Rom must leave England.”

More than a few would have no problem with this. But I did.

“Jimmy, when we left the house with the whitewashed basement, did you leave a watcher behind?” I turned my attention on the young man.

He smiled with a flash of teeth and then quickly hid it. “You know me well, Madame Magdala. Your enemy is our enemy. Of course we watch.” He paused a long moment, staring into the depths of his cup. Long enough that I wondered if he used the swirling liquid to induce a trance as I did. “We followed her as well.”

I sighed in relief. “And where is she now?”

“Her creaking wagon is overloaded and ill constructed. She makes her slow way toward Nottinghamshire.”

“Lord Byron's grave is in Nottinghamshire.” I did not realize I'd spoken aloud until I heard my own words.

“Can we intercept her?” Ish demanded.

“We need to ride now to do so,” Jimmy said, standing and looking across the brook toward the corral. “But your horses are old and too slow for such a journey.”

“We hired them since we do not own beasts of the magnificence of yours,” I said.

Jimmy shouted orders in Romany to the young man tending the livestock. With a curled upper lip, he replied that, yes, he'd return the horses to their owner, if they lived long enough to make the journey, and that they were not much good for anything but glue.

“You, Madame Magdala, may ride my horse,” the elder said. He gazed fondly at a tall white stallion who snorted and stomped at the prospect of a good run.

“Oh, my. He is awesome. I fear my skills are not up to managing him.”

“He will not throw you. As long as you hold on tightly,” Jimmy replied on a grin. “As for your friend, we have an aging mare who has speed, but she is lazy and used to teaching youngsters how to sit on her back with and without a saddle.”

“I beg your pardon,” Ish retorted. “I ride quite well and own a decent steed, but I keep the gelding in a stable near Oxford where I live.” Something I did not know about him. “I come from a long line of noble Hindi who live a-horseback.”

“We'll see about that. You will ride the mare anyway as we have few extra horses with the stamina to make this journey.” Jimmy stalked off toward the corral.

“Wouldn't your balloon be a better and faster conveyance?” I really did not trust that stallion to not throw me into the first ditch.

“My father does not approve of my balloon,” Jimmy said softly. “And the basket has little room for extra people to help us at the other end of the journey.”

“You know me, Jimmy Porto.” By invoking his name, I gave myself a level of power over him. “We need only you, me, and the scientist. I will not be fooled by her tricks again. I hold a grudge against her and her purpose. That grudge fuels my strength and purpose.”

“Balloons are expensive,” the old man said sternly. “We have no extra coin to buy fuel.”

Jimmy's shoulders slumped. He would not defy his father.

“I can pay for the fuel,” Ish said.

Jimmy straightened with hope. The leader narrowed his eyes, assessing what else might be gained from this deal.

“He'll pay a crown for the fuel and Jimmy's time. No more,” I insisted. If Ish wasn't careful, he might find himself “adopted” and responsible for the upkeep of the entire clan.

The old man eyed me keenly. I stood firm, holding his gaze as an equal.

He backed down just before I blinked.

Jimmy bowed to me. “As you decree. Hurry, we must fly now, while the wind is in our favor.” This time he held his huge smile, revealing all of his teeth, including the gold one I'd bought for him to replace a rotten and aching one. He still owed me for that favor.

We had to walk a mile to a clearing large enough for the balloon to escape through an opening in the canopy of deeply green branches. The contraption looked strange, the cloud-gray envelope neatly folded over the equally drab wicker basket. I'd flown with Jimmy several times, but always, I met him in an open field with the balloon fully operational. This collapsed monstrosity looked devoid of function, or functionality.

Fortunately, six men had followed us and set about unfolding the cloud-gray envelope and laying it flat on the ground, stretching it to its full dimensions, and setting up a burning brazier to force hot air into it.

Ish seemed to know the principles of the thing and helped the men sort ropes and fix sandbags to the basket.

I did what I do best: stood by and watched, making careful note of each step so that I could remember most of it.

In a short amount of time, the balloon had risen, like a misty ghost reaching through the canopy toward the stars. It strained against the ground ropes, anxious to loose itself from the bonds of the earth.

“Everybody in!” Jimmy shouted, gesturing me forward.

Ish bounded into the basket with a huge grin on his face. “I've always wanted to do this.”

“Men were not meant to fly with the birds, only shoot them down,” the elder warned. I hadn't noticed him within the shadows of the first line of trees.

A shiver ran through me at the portent in his tone. He had the gift of sight. I'd known it for as long as I'd befriended this clan. They knew I had the sight. That common bond had forged early acceptance between us. Mutual respect and genuine affection had nurtured acceptance to grow into true friendship.

“Come, Magdala,” Ish called. “We need to hurry. She has a week's head start on us.”

“He is one of us, yet not one of us,” the elder said directly to me. “He suits you better than one of my boys. Keep him safe.” Then he faded into the forest like a wood sprite or a gnome from ancient fairy tales.

Jimmy had joined Ish in the basket. They both offered me a hand to help me clamber over the high wicker walls.

“Cut her loose,” Jimmy called to the men scattered around the clearing. As one, they pulled the lines from their stakes and cast them free.

The basket rose willingly, following the straining need of the balloon. We drifted away from the earth in an easy glide. The first branches of the surrounding trees passed beneath us, then the swaying treetops. I looked up and over the obscuring forest. The Thames sparkled in the afternoon sunshine, a silvery road through the heart of England. A southerly breeze pushed us northward, away from the dark smudge of coal smoke that cloaked the city on all but the windiest days.

Ish opened four sandbags, one from each corner, letting the contents dribble downward to balance our weight. We shot higher, faster than our first casual drift upward. The world grew smaller and smaller; it was like looking at a terrain map of a battlefield with all the miniature soldiers ready for a great hand to push them into place.

The wind blew stronger at these levels, but we felt none of it as we flew at the same speed. We moved faster and faster toward our destination. I turned to look where we headed, leaving behind where we'd been.

“What do you hear from Dr. Badenough?” I asked Ish, to fill the time. Even at the speed of the wind, we could only travel the distance to Nottinghamshire over the course of several hours.

“Jeremy? Why nothing. He stayed in London.” He sounded as alarmed as I felt.

“I received a note that I do not think he actually wrote, saying he regretted not seeing me again before returning to Oxford.”

“Does this have something to do with that blasted Persian book?”

“Possibly. The man who delivered the note has ties to the man Jeremy read the book for. It is indecipherable, too many bad translations.” I began to consider the many roles Reverend Morton Rigby played in this little adventure.