This Deadly Engine Page 2

  I was so close to Pienne. I was too close to The Misters. Yet they remained so far away.

  Part of me wanted to walk into the lane, hold my arms wide, and yell as loud as possible. I wanted one last and mighty act of defiance to Schaever, to The Misters, to the canon within, to my life as a whole. After all, did I not deserve a final show for Alexander Asherton? Was it not better to go out in glory, in the midst of battle, rather than become a victim of my magical dependencies?

  Perhaps…yet the more pragmatic part of me urged restraint and caution. For all of my imagined bravado, the coward and the knave lurked within.

  The Guardsmen continued watching the sky. They remained oblivious to the approach of the bloodhunters.

  I could have taken a less direct approach to the lawyer’s office, but other Guardsmen patrolled the perimeter of the Exchange. The longer route also risked being caught by the bloodhunters before I reached safety. The direct approach remained the simplest and best way.

  And I had to do something soon.

  The only thought that came to mind was acting the drunken fool, which reminded me of the last one I had been around – Genevieve, the mother of my former wife, Aimee. Schaever dismissed her from his service because I had stolen Lady Elizabeth’s journal which he tasked her to retrieve. Drink gave her solace from her misery. Yet she needed someone to hear her tale of woe and sadness, so she convinced me to listen. She had failed to recognize me, which had made her revelations about my former wife’s half-elf and half-human origins all the more telling. Perhaps thinking of them explained why the form that slipped out of the alley where I attempted to go appeared familiar.

  Aimee?

  No, don’t be a fool.

  She had died. I had watched her go beneath the churning waters when Schaever’s dragon nursery sank to the bottom of an underground lake.

  Besides, a highwayman’s coat complete with the upturned collar obscured the fleeing figure. It could be anyone and was likely a common thief. Voices followed the fellow, demanding that he stop. An instant later, the rest of the Guardsmen appeared, each waving a sword and a pistol. One of them fired a warning shot, which encouraged the mysterious person to run all the faster.

  The four in front of the Exchange found their wits and fell in with their comrades. The combined protests filled the lane with enough noise to draw the bloodhunters’ attention.

  The creatures bounded forward, almost leaping on all sixes as if they knew the fleeing figure was me. They passed by, oblivious of my presence.

  I ran for the building. When I pulled even with the Exchange’s front doors, the bloodhunters realized their mistake. They turned and focused their red eyes of death on me.

  I neither hesitated nor stopped.

  The bloodhunters followed, with muscles rippling through limbs and neck. Both of them snarled. I had seen such a look on a dozen different dogs in my life. It spoke of the decision to fight no matter the consequences.

  A Guardsman yelled at me as the company turned from their futile chase. In the same moment, the bloodhunters restrained themselves no longer. They raced forward, their howls piercing the air.

  They had waited too late. I rounded the corner and saw where the secret door beckoned. It led to the lab where Pienne administered the elixirs that granted powers: jumping, invisibility, invincibility, speed, and others. I already imagined the man’s surprise and anger at seeing me. I could—

  A bright flash accompanied a deafening boom. A wall of air threw me across the lane. Heat washed over me, and the sensation took me back to the worst day in my life…the day when I signed the divorce papers and followed Aimee to ask her to reconsider one last time. For my efforts, she tried to kill me with a bomb. And like that day, I felt as if I breathed flames. I tasted the acridness of smoke and gunpowder, which also contained the strange aftertaste of mint…which indicated the presence of magic. The force of hundreds of pounds pressed against me as I struck something solid. My eyes dried to the point that my tears evaporated.

  As quickly as it began, it ended…exactly like the first time, exactly like the time she tried to kill me at the Bank of Campden years later…exactly like every time Aimee tried to kill me. Since she had died, that meant someone else could create magic bombs.

  A clump of red-dyed silk fabric fell over me. I pushed it out of my face. When I stood, I found myself in the midst of papers, books, ornate jewelry boxes, strands of pearls, bolts upon bolts of silk, the smell of dozens of broken perfume bottles, and an assortment of other treasures. Such items belonged in neither The Misters’ office, nor in a lawyer’s office. Rather, they belonged to the Exchange.

  Smoke billowed about. I entered the alley. Bricks and marble and burning wood filled the way.

  Am I alive?

  I patted myself from shoulders to knees, and everything felt in the correct place, including my clothing. At least the blast had not left me in want of covering, and it did not appear to have burned me. That fact provided some solace.

  Smoke filled my chest, and I coughed. A breeze stirred long enough to clear the air in the immediate area. It revealed two broken buildings, both smoldering, and both partially collapsed. For the first time I saw beyond The Misters’ domain and into the lawyer’s building proper. Desks, shelves of books, ledgers, and hourglasses filled the many rooms.

  The canon asked, “What about Pienne? What about his laboratory?”

  The toady man’s lair would have been close to the outer wall.

  “Pienne?” I called, and my voice cracked from the smoke swirling about again. I walked towards the place where the doors once stood. “Pienne? Are you here? Are you alive?”

  I pushed aside a split beam and climbed atop a pile of marble. On one piece was inscribed justicia.

  I coughed again and wiped my eyes. Through the swirling smoke I spotted it sitting there: the wooden table on which The Misters examined their latest acquisitions. The area about it appeared as it always did during the presentations. It wasn’t burned. It wasn’t broken. It wasn’t scratched. And it had not moved. The blood of The Misters’ victims stained the rubble-free floor.

  The thought of the anonymous men and the delight they took in dealing death sent a shudder through me. How often had I tempted them to kill me? How far had I pushed them to administering the third elixir?

  Too many times.

  A moan sounded above the crackling of flames and the cracking of wood. I followed it to the right and found a hand rising from an assortment of twisted wood.

  The canon said, “Go. Help. You are needed.”

  I did as told. When I moved planks and chunks of stone away and saw oversized fingers, I knew who I had found. With a final push, I uncovered the doorman for The Misters’ domain. He belonged to the race that this world called a cyclops because they so closely resembled the mythological creatures. This particular one stood as the barrier between the affairs of science on the outside and the desires of magic on the inside. I always poked fun at him to help relieve the fear of facing The Misters, and he always responded by letting me know he wished I was dead. In light of the fact a four-foot long piece of splintered beam pierced his belly, our silly banter and ill-will seemed inappropriate. The blast had knocked his helmet askew. It cracked the glass on the front from top to bottom.

  He opened his eye, squinting as if he peered into a bright light. The corner of his mouth wrinkled into a sneer. “Should…have known…it…” His body shuddered. “…was…you.”

  “I had nothing to do with this.” I didn’t use my typical, jovial tone. I held his hand as I sat next to him. “What happened? Did someone try to see our masters? Where is Pienne?”

  The cyclops coughed. A bubble of blood grew from his mouth before popping. He tried to remove his hand from mine, but I refused to let him. No one, human or non-human, deserved to die alone. “Let me…be…” He turned his head to the side. “Dreaming of…the Orange Fields…of Donsham. Dreaming…of…freedom…” His body shuddered once more. “…of…home…”
He tensed for a moment. His last breath escaped, and his body relaxed. For all of his strength, he still succumbed to the power of the explosion.

  I reached beneath the glass on his helmet and hesitated. For the cyclopes, no dishonor equaled that of being poked in the eye. I had no intention of subjecting him, especially in death, to such as that. Rather, I closed his eye to make him appear at peace.

  Voices arose from behind just before water sprayed all around. The hum of steam engines driving water pumps overwhelmed the roar of the fires.

  I left the cyclops and moved to where the door to Pienne’s lab should have been. The toady man’s domain once contained a visual delight of colors, contraptions, and possibilities. Beakers and tubes always held an assortment of new elixirs as they bubbled and swirled. Gears and pulleys filled tables holding various experiments. I had brought Lady Elizabeth to The Misters on my last visit. She had so captivated Pienne before Schaever deactivated her body that the thought of The Misters dissecting her proved too much for his sensibilities. Rather than witness such an act, he helped me to escape with her.

  In the midst of broken glass, I found the metal leg he designed. Strands of smoke rose from various pools of liquids, each a different color. I picked up a vial, unbroken, in which purple swirled within a thick, gray liquid. I tucked it safely in a pocket. I collected two more vials, both containing a thin, sky-blue liquid.

  Of the man himself, I found no sign. A search of the area revealed nothing other than the ruins of his experiments and the splintered seat from the chair where I had received so many of his concoctions.

  “Search the rubble,” a voice said as more water rained down. “See if there are any survivors.”

  “Pienne?” I called again.

  “What’s that?” the voice of the other man asked. “Who’s there? Do you require assistance?”

  “Keep them out of the Exchange,” another voice said. The gruffness made it sound like a Guardsman. “Form a line. Protect what’s inside. No one is allowed past us.”

  “We need to put the fire out,” yet another voice said. “You must let us pass.”

  “Not without our employers’ approval,” the Guardsman said. “Now stand aside.”

  I stepped away from the ruins of Pienne’s lab. When I emerged from a cloud of smoke, I saw the all-too-familiar scene of the Fire Brigade with their bright-red coats and black pails and black hoses. They worked in unison to quench the thirst of the flames. Missing, though, was their airship with the water tanks.

  Crowds had also gathered to gawk, watch, and gather some of the valuables strewn across the ground. One lady held a bolt of violet cloth tight against her bosom. A man plucked a strand of pearls and a silver brooch from a twisted crate. Others did much the same despite the Guardsmen’s threats to arrest them.

  The crowd filled the lane to the point that the Fire Brigade had difficulty operating their equipment. Several forced bystanders away from the steam engines and water wagons by turning their hoses on the people. Loud and opinionated protests followed.

  Yet they all stopped when a lady screamed and pointed to the top of the Merchant Exchange.

  The giant globe let out a painful screech. Gears and springs fell from its base and rained upon us all. The colored lights spun in all directions, illuminating the clouds of smoke with red and blue and green and purple hues. The globe itself spun faster for a moment, then shook as if it wanted to go faster still despite something holding it back. And then it stopped. In the next moment, the top of the Exchange cracked. The globe fell to the right, paused, then rolled to the edge of the roof. It hesitated.

  Ladies screamed, men yelled, and everyone ran in all directions, save for a small girl who watched the globe with an expression of anticipation, as if she waited for a ball to sail through the air. She wore a tattered dress with lace unraveling along the bottom hem. A stain on the front had turned black over time. Pointed ears protruded from the girl’s unkempt hair, indicating her station in life – a half-human, half-elf child whom no one wanted to claim.

  The globe gave a final groan before it fell.

  Though not in the direct path, the girl stood close enough for debris to strike her. No one tried to help her. The falling world mesmerized her to the point she had no desire to move.

  I ran to her. The shadow of the globe passed over us at it bounced down the side. I scooped her into my arms and turned to shield her.

  All at once, stone cracked, metal shrieked, and whistles filled the air. Debris flew about.

  As a thank you for shielding her, the girl bit my arm. I flinched, and she ran into the smoke. I tried to reach for her, but a sharp pain shot across my back.

  A man grabbed my shoulder. “On the ground, sir.” He tried to push me down. “Quickly. We need to remove that piece of metal.”

  A sharp sliver of metal next to my right shoulder blade pricked my finger when I reached for it. I dropped to a knee.

  “Looks like you caught the Horn of Africa,” the man said. Pain hesitated after he pulled the piece free, then shot through my chest and arm with renewed determination. “You need to see a surgeon about some stitches.” He called for assistance.

  A sniffing sound drew my eyes to the right, to where the bloodhunters scoured the wreckage. They inspected every inch of ground, trying to catch my scent amidst the myriad of smells. Perhaps when they reached Pienne’s lab, they would lose me for good if the mixture of elixirs finished overwhelming their senses.

  I rolled away from the good Samaritan and somehow gained my feet. With an open wound, the monsters would eventually find my trail, even if the scents from Pienne’s lab did trick them. I had to get away. When I ran down the alley, the man yelled for me to stop.

  Where did I go? Where could I flee?

  Obviously, I could not go to The Misters or to Pienne. Branagh’s, the twenty-four-hour ale house with the best drink in the Empire, was out of the question since Guardsmen questioned every person or creature coming and going. I couldn’t go home since I no longer had one. I refused to go to Chen’s Theatre, even though some there would willingly hide me.

  So where can I go?

  The canon said, “There is only one place for you. The haven you should have sought from the start. Go to her.”

  I shook my head even as I brushed the pocket with the letter. An honest hand driven by gratitude had penned it, promising safety and loyalty.

  And because it promised the potential of love, I refused to act upon it.

  My former wife tried to kill me. The woman I loved after her tried the same. I would not, could not, risk such things that love taunted and teased. They would be the cause of my death, of that I had no doubt.

  My back hurt, and blood seeped down it. My body ached, and it took everything I had to put one foot in front of the other. Still…I refused to go there. I would not endanger the very people I saved from Schaever’s attempted kidnapping at Chen’s Theatre. They would welcome me, and help me, and provide sanctuary, but I could not ask so much of them.

  My feet continued moving. I somehow managed to stay above them. I must have looked the part of the drunken fool, or elixired-addict, for those in the lane avoided me.

  Did the bloodhunters howl anew? Had they found my scent again?

  What am I doing? Why do I keep going? Why do I keep fighting, struggling, and trying?

  Why? Because I was a damned fool. I could blame my determination on the work ethic instilled in me by my father. He, who demanded long hours on the docks day after day, from sunrise to sunset, made sure I understood the value of work at an early age. He also demanded I maintain my studies. I spent many nights by the light of the candles while he drank with his friends at whichever pub they decided to close on any given night. When mum died when I was nine, father’s drinking grew worse, and his demands on me increased. He took whatever money I earned. He drank it away…every pence and shilling.

  I stumbled but kept pushing forward.

  Why did I join the Church, and why did
I choose to help those with magic and alcohol addictions? Because I saw the latter throughout my life? Indeed, and I promised never to become one myself.

  So who am I?

  I am my father, only I substituted magic for drink. I supposed I had a natural inclination towards cravings and dependencies. I simply never believed I could fall prey to something so bad.

  I fell to a knee, paused, then forced myself up. I continued onward.

  While Aimee had played her part in my addiction, I understood the dangers of magic and sought the elixirs regardless. I wanted to escape from life. I wanted to forget my problems and my pain, to slowly bring an end to my days on my own terms.

  Why do I risk so much for those less fortunate who are in trouble?

  Because I saw myself in them. Because I saw Alexander, with his threadbare shirt in the middle of a winter snow, trying to push a wagon along a cold dock. Because I still remembered how the chill reached past my bones and into my soul, making me want to lay down and sleep. Yet my legs had pushed on in those days in the same way they did in my current situation. Some part of me refused to give up, to give in. The canon urged me onward, past the stores and bakeries and people turning from the festivities of the Expo to answer the fire bells.

  I rounded the corner. Before me loomed the massive building that I did not want to see. The towers on the front, one on the left corner and one on the right corner, reflected the light of the fires on their gold plating. A set of double doors, each engraved with the sign of the Alpha and the Omega in the center, welcomed all. A semi-circular window above the doors depicted the sun rising over the land as it illuminated a flying dove. The picture spoke of warmth and assurance, of peace and comfort.

  I collapsed on the first step leading to the entrance. My legs finally refused to go further.

  Why am I here?

  I pulled myself up, using my arms, scratching and clawing across the stone. At some point, my fingers and hands bled. Yet the burning of the wound on my back overwhelmed any other ache.