Arcadia Snips and the Steamwork Consortium (15 page)

"Bastard," the fire chief swore, turning to face the machine while shaking his fist. "McMulligan!"

A galvanized bullhorn atop of the machine activated with a metallic whine, flooding the burning street with a crackling hiss.

"Attention! Sign nothing! The gas company's fire department is running a scam! We're here to help!"

"Finally," William said, sighing with relief.

"Step forward to mortgage your property and qualify for
platinum
membership!"

"Platinum?! You're stealin' our schtick!" The fireman said, drawing his axe. "Get out of here, McMulligan! I saw 'em first!"

He charged across the cobbled street, joined by the majority of his men. Soon, they were swarming atop of the machine, beating away at the iron carapace that enclosed it and struggling with the pilots who remained on its exterior. Meanwhile, the tenants continued to engage in a futile struggle against the rapidly growing blaze.

William stared at the scene, awestruck by the absurdity of it all. When he turned to Snips for answers, the thief just smiled and shrugged. "Probably decided they wanted a piece of the action,"

she told him.

Turning back to the tableau of chaos before him, William put his umbrella aside, rolled up his sleeves, and marched toward the fire carriage. He seized one side of the wagon, dragged himself up to the pump, and began turning valves.

Snips watched with all the curiosity of an alien monitoring the peculiar mating habits of humans. When William moved to heft up a wrench, it was enough to coax the thief off the wall for a closer look. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Something," William replied, seizing a nearby wrench and fitting it to a valve. With a great heave of his shoulders, he turned it; the engine creaked and shuddered. Pressure rumbled in the belly of the pump as he worked to rouse it from its slumber.

"Don't be silly," Snips said, and now she was scowling.

"You won't make an ounce of difference."

"I can’t sit by and do nothing," William said, struggling to turn another valve. "People are in danger."

The other firefighters remained distracted with their battle.

Snips looked their way, sighed, and climbed up on the carriage.

"Fine," she said. "What do I do?"

"Press that valve down," William directed her to a brass fitting, wiping at a layer of perspiration that had gathered at his brow. "Hold it while I release this pressure."

A few of the tenants fighting the blaze had noticed what Snips and William were up to, and were now running over to help.

Snips glared at them, but William was quick to pick up on the momentum and started politely issuing orders. It wasn't long before Marge herself—covered from head to toe in ash and burns

—arrived at the pump only to take direction from William without batting an eye.

"Hold onto the hoses," William said, turning one last crank.

The pump shuddered as an immense pressure started to churn.

The streams of chemically treated water gushed out in long threads of foam, lashing out at the fire. The pump sprayed out steam and moisture, soaking everyone nearby; as they struggled to control the device, the fire started to writhe and wither beneath the smothering assault.

Mopping the sweat and foam from her face, Snips watched the scene unfold. Children ran about in oversized fire-proofed coats, carrying sloshing buckets of water in their hands. Stern-faced men and women clutched at the hoses, directing an endless stream towards the struggling flame.

The thief hmphed and turned back to the valves.

Meanwhile, several of the firemen had seen what was happening. Abandoning their reckless assault on the armored competitor, they began to run toward their hijacked carriage.

"Private property!" The chief yelled, pointing his finger at them.

"Private property! That's private property!"

Marge turned. Flanking the landlord were some of the finest thugs that Dead Beat Alley had to offer. As the firemen began to regroup, they realized that the crowd—which had started to swell as more inhabitants of Dead Beat Alley joined in the effort

—had grown considerably large.

"There a problem?" Marge asked over the thunderous sound of the hoses.

The fire chief, only now realizing the precarious nature of his situation, cleared his throat and pointed at the pump. "That's mine."

Marge looked over her shoulder, spat out a wad of tar, then locked gazes with the one-eyed fire-fighter. "You don't say."

Several of Dead Beat Alley's denizens were now stepping forward, enclosing the nervous firemen in a loose circle. "Uh, yeah. It's against the law to use it without my permission, and—"

"Law?" Marge asked. "Whassat?"

"Think it's somethin' rich people have," a thug offered helpfully. "You know, to keep out riffraff."

"Huh. Sounds expensive," Marge said. "Don't think I can afford it."

The fire chief swallowed. Nasty sorts of men with nastier knives now loomed on every side. "Well, yes, but—"

"Tell you what," Marge said. "Seein' how it's a nice, warm night—and it looks like I might only be losin' half my apartment—

I'm gonna do you a big favor."

"You are?"

"Yeah. I'm gonna let you have the pump back when I'm through with it. How does that sound? Pretty fair, huh?"

"That's ridiculous," is what the fire chief would have said, but somewhere between the sight of Marge's dead eye stare and those long and wicked knives, the message became garbled and ended up sounding remarkably like "Yes, quite fair, ma'am, thank you very much!".

~*~

~*~

Nigel Arcanum relished the whimsies of a long dead author, his bandage sheathed hand scraping beneath the book's words as he read. But as he reached the end of the page, he paused; the sound of something tapping against bare glass drew him away from his pleasant reverie.

He cleared his throat and spoke.

"Ah. I have a guest. Good evening."

Silence.

He continued: "There is no need to hide from me. Please, step into the light."

A figure rose from the shadows. He wore a clean suit and a black jackal mask trimmed in gold.

Nigel suppressed a wet and guttural laugh. "Oh, dear. They still have you wearing those masks, do they?"

The man’s voice was smothered in metal; when he spoke, it was with the tone of steel. "You sent for me."

"I sent a missive to the Society. A harmless request," Nigel said, "for clarification."

"The Society needs not clarify itself to the likes of you."

"How quickly do the dogs turn against their former Masters," Nigel said, smothering another moist chuckle. "You seem to forget who wrote your charter."

"And you seem to forget who abandoned it for the sake of their own ‘salvation’," the jackal spoke, his metallic voice unable to mask his disdain. "It has been suggested among my fellow initiates, Master Arcanum, that a time is rapidly approaching when your goals may interfere with our own."

"Should such a time come, pup, I will gladly remind you why your elders still speak my name with reverence."

Long and wicked iron gleamed in the jackal’s hand.

"You’re a crippled fool living in a dead past," he said. "What threat are you to me? What threat are you to anyone, anymore? Just a musty corpse that hasn’t had the good sense to rot in its grave."

The room grew still. When Nigel spoke next, his words carried a presence that defied his mummified remains:

"There are two types of mistakes, little pup. Small mistakes," he said, "and large mistakes."

"I did not come here for a lecture."

"Small mistakes are simple things, such as forgetting to send a letter to your mother on her birthday, or perhaps leaving your door unlocked," Nigel explained. "But large mistakes—large mistakes are something else entirely." A chill swept through the room; the flames spluttered and dipped low.

"Large mistakes are the kind of errors you find in the old Greek plays. The sort where the tragic hero burns his eyes out with hot pokers and spends the rest of his days wandering the earth, searching for salvation. It is eating the gingerbread house you stumble across in the woods; it is taking a bite out of that apple when you certainly know better."

Nigel leaned forward, the chair creaking beneath his weight. "But most of all, little pup, it is doing what you are thinking about doing right now."

Every light in the room went out.

The jackal stepped back.

"Whatever you and your ilk are plotting, I could not care less," Nigel said, returning to a more comfortable position. "But leave my daughter out of it."

"I will do so, in exchange for one thing," said the jackal.

"Oh," Nigel said, sounding amused. "You think you are in a position to make requests?"

"Stop Count Orwick's investigation into the Steamwork. In exchange, I will see to it that your half-breed of a daughter remains untouched."

“'Half-breed'?” Nigel said, choking on his own chortle.

“How enlightened. Very well; consider it done. And tell your fellow 'initiates' something."

"Yes?"

"Remind them that the Heap is still burning."

The jackal hesitated, as if chewing this over. At long last, he left the way he came, leaving Nigel to ponder.

Several moments stretched out in silence; at long last, Starkweather emerged from behind one of the curtains. He turned the hidden gas valve on, causing the room’s lights to surge back to life. "How long do you intend to maintain this charade?"

"For as long as my atonement takes," Nigel said. "Fetch me a pen and paper, Starkweather. I have letters to write, and they must be delivered tonight."

~*~

It was late at night when Snips and William finally arrived.

Together, they were bruised, burnt, exhausted, and soaked to the very bone. William's coat had been torn asunder and Snips had nearly lost her hat. Yet as they approached their destination, they found themselves riding upon a cloud of euphoria—both had been seized by an inescapable sensation of elation that came with accomplishment in the face of adversity.

The fire had been extinguished. The apartment had been heavily damaged, but it was recoverable; in addition, no tenants had been slain or lost. And although Basil's work had been destroyed in the process, Snips had managed to keep a hold on the crucial blueprints that described his research in intimate detail. At Snips' suggestion, they had made their way to Detective Watts'

home to clean themselves up and turn in for the night.

"I don't wish to intrude," William said.

"Nonsense," Snips said. "I'm sure Miss Primmypants will be more than happy to have you. Besides, you're going to have to make heads or tails of these blueprints for me," she added, waving Basil's plans about.

Detective Watts' manor house was nestled away among the rolling hills of an overgrown field tucked neatly inside the upper ward. Trees lined all sides of the grounds, creating the illusion of a forest in every direction; weeds and brambles that had never known the cruel edge of a gardener's shears flourished in a labyrinth of green. The only path was rough and broken, winding its way to the lonely building that lay at the center of the estate.

Snips and William gawked; neither had ever seen so much greenery in their life. As they picked their way carefully along the trail that threaded through the lush landscape, William began asking questions.

"Are—uh, are you sure this is the right address, Miss Snips?"

"It's the address on the card," Snips said rather defensively.

"But this is a little—erm,
odd
, isn't it?"

When they at last arrived at the manor house, they found it to be in a deplorable condition. The once-splendid ivory columns had faded to an ailing yellow; every window was shattered and the front doors were hanging by a rusty iron nail. Vines greedily seized the walls and balconies, glutting themselves on whatever purchase they could find. Snips stepped up to the rotting doors and, with great hesitation, gave a steady knock.

The doors promptly collapsed inward.

They stepped in. Their footsteps disturbed a nest of pigeons, who promptly gave flight amidst a flutter of feathers and dust. William pressed a handkerchief to his mouth to stave off the scent of bird dung. The two pressed on.

They did not have to go far before the house came to an abrupt end. Though the front remained intact, the back had collapsed into rubble long ago; after walking for only a few feet, they found themselves suddenly outside. It was as if the house had been cleaved in half, leaving its innards exposed—rich lengths of vines and thorns tumbled through the open rooms, drenching the entire backside in a tapestry of foliage. A pipe overhead had burst, forming a waterfall that splashed across a lopsided floor before drizzling down into a once-tiny pool that had swelled into a man-made pond. A makeshift dock swept out of the house's first floor, reaching to the center of the lake; there, sitting at a cast-iron table, Jacob Watts enjoyed a very late tea with Miss Primrose.

Snips stared at the sight for some time. William shambled forward, removing his hat and waiting patiently.

"Miss Snips?" Miss Primrose began. "I do believe you are somewhat late."

"Right. Well," Snips began. "About that. Uh, complications arose."

"Would you care to introduce your... ahem. Friend?"

"Oh, yes," Snips said, quickly recovering from the sight before her. "This is William Daffodil. William, this is Miss Primrose and Detective Watts."

"A pleasure to meet you both," William said, bowing.

"Oh, hullo," Jacob replied. "Please, have a seat. Make yourselves comfortable. Ah, not that chair," he quickly added as William approached the seat opposite of him. "That chair belongs to Corporal Squawkers."

"Pardon?"

"My trusted second in command," Jacob said, and only then did William glance down. A pigeon—one who had been fitted with a tiny spear-headed Kaiser helm and a set of painstakingly crafted miniature medals—cooed up at him from the seat before returning to picking at his half-eaten biscuit.