Clockwork Menagerie: A Shadows of Asphodel Novella (4 page)

t ended abruptly, like all good dreams.

Konstantin woke with a gasp, his heartbeat hammering, and kicked off his blanket. Air cooled his sweaty skin, but his blood still burned in his veins. He gripped fistfuls of sheets and swallowed hard, trying to forget how Himmel’s skin felt. He had seen him shirtless before, of course, but never while alone—

This wasn’t working. Thinking about the dream made it worse.

A cold bath would help, though he doubted the zeppelin had one. The zeppelin did have Himmel, who obviously wasn’t an option. Now if only he could convince his body to obey his mind, he could go back to sleep.

His pocketwatch ticked on the nightstand, doing nothing to help his insomnia.

They wouldn’t arrive in St. Petersburg until early morning, and he grimaced at the thought of lying awake until then. This felt improper, almost illegal, though how could it be? Nobody knew who inhabited his dreams. He thought of Himmel as he quietly touched himself. When his frustration peaked, his mind blanked in a moment of bliss; he stared heavenward until sleep dragged him into the darkness.

Konstantin leaned against the railing of the forward observation deck. Below, the zeppelin’s shadow flitted over the streets of St. Petersburg. Only a few years old, the Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood gleamed in fairytale splendor. Domes like marzipan candies, blue and green and gold, topped spun-sugar architecture.

Russians scurried through St. Petersburg on important business. Konstantin supposed this was important business, meeting foreign dignitaries in the capital city. Then why did the mission sound so
boring
? He hated diplomacy. His fingers flexed on the railing, itching to take something apart and put it back together.

“Falkenrath?” At least Himmel announced his arrival this time. “Are you ready?”

Konstantin spun on his heel. “For what?”

“The ambassador has promised an exciting evening.” Those last two words were pronounced with the driest skepticism.

Konstantin grimaced. “Likely some horrid dinner requiring appropriate attire.”

Though he wouldn’t mind seeing Himmel in his dress uniform, which may have figured into his imagination last night…

God, don’t blush.

Thankfully, Himmel seemed not to notice his discomfort. “I wonder where we fly next. The
Nachitgall
is too beautiful to stay grounded.” He caressed the curve of the railing, unaware of how distracting his hands could be.

Konstantin forced a calm face. “Pity we lost the
Wanderfalke
.”

“Agreed.” Himmel leaned on his elbows. Were all men in the Navy so muscular?

“Any idea how long the ambassador wants us in St. Petersburg?”

“None.” Himmel shrugged. “Perhaps we should ask.”

“Sounds prudent.” Though he was imagining highly imprudent things.

They found the ambassador in the dining room, enjoying a cup of coffee by the windows. Himmel saluted. “Sir.”

“At ease.”

The captain kept his shoulders squared. “We arrive in twenty minutes. Should I radio them and reserve an airship shed?”

Von Bach’s mustache bristled as he sipped his coffee. “That would be splendid. Spare no expense to keep her shipshape.”

“Yes, sir.” Himmel dipped his head. “Will today require formal attire?”

“Oh, don’t overdress.” Von Bach added a tablespoon of sugar to his cup. “We have been invited to tour a workshop in the House of Fabergé, escorted by members of the local nobility. There should be dinner afterward.”

Konstantin clasped his hands behind his back. “That sounds excellent.”

Von Bach added yet another spoonful of sugar to his coffee. “Archmage, I expect you to take notes and deliver a full report on their technomancy trinkets. I doubt they will show us anything of military significance, though these Russians do have a tendency to brag. Don’t be afraid to show some enthusiasm.”

Konstantin broke into a grin. “Not a problem.”

“Good, good.” Grunting, the baron braced himself on the table as he stood. “Gentlemen, I shall see you on the ground.”

Konstantin would have skipped away to his cabin, though he was hardly an overeager schoolboy anymore. He tidied his things and brought his suitcases to the door, where porters whisked them away. Jittery, he returned to the forward observation deck, where he watched the zeppelin land in St. Petersburg.

The engines hummed at a quarter power, holding the
Nachtigall
steady over the airfield. Men on the ground caught the landing lines and towed the airship into a shed, which wasn’t quite as nice as the one in Königsberg. Cobwebs clung to the steel girders. Clearly St. Petersburg didn’t often receive visitors from the air.

Baron von Bach strutted down the gangway and descended the stairs, Konstantin and Himmel at his heels. A handful of Russians waited on the ground. The tallest among them caught Konstantin’s eye, a pale man with cornsilk hair and glacial blue eyes. His hand rested on his saber’s pommel with casual confidence.

“Good evening,” said the stranger, his accent subtle yet undeniable.

“Baron Von Bach.” The ambassador bowed with considerable pomp. “These are my men, Archmage Konstantin Falkenrath and Captain Theodore Himmel.”

“Honored to meet you. My name is Alexsandr Dmitriev. I will be your guide tonight.”

“Your German is very good, Mr. Dmitriev,” Konstantin said.

“Please, call me Alexsandr.” When he smiled, his eyes warmed. “And thank you.”

Alexsandr shook his hand, quick and hard. His eyes betrayed more than charm and civility; without a doubt, he would shadow their every move. Not to worry, Konstantin would flatter a few secrets out of him. Or so he hoped.

“Please,” Alexsandr said, “let us not be late.”

He brought them to a sleek black auto. Once they climbed inside, it accelerated from the airfield and rumbled into the heart of the city.

So this was St. Petersburg. Horses clopped over cobblestones, shying away from steampowered wagons huffing like black dragons of iron. An organ grinder cranked out a tune, his monkey dancing in a violet vest and baring its teeth at anyone too close. Konstantin pressed his fingers to the glass as he peered down the street, certain he had seen an elephant of articulated brass trumpeting in a fountain.

Alexsandr said something in Russian and Baron von Bach laughed. Blushing, Konstantin didn’t ask for a translation. He already felt hopelessly lost, like he did every time he traveled to a foreign land. Sometimes he wondered why he left the mountains and meadows of Salzburg, where he could have lived happily ever after. He fidgeted in his seat, his knee brushing against Himmel’s, who edged away from his touch.

They halted in a crooked street. Alexsandr hopped out and held the door. “After you.”

Konstantin smiled, his heart thumping, and the Russian returned his smile. He craned his neck to peer at the building looming over them. Coal smoke grimed the ornate granite façade. Alexsandr knocked on the carved oak door with his silver-headed walking stick. A boy answered, blinking like a frog, and questioned them in Russian; Alexsandr answered with an irritated lift of an eyebrow before the boy backed away.

“Right this way.” Bowing, Alexsandr waved them onward.

Konstantin stepped into another world. Daylight streamed through a wall of windows; lamps hung from spidery brackets, glowing over workbenches where craftsmen bent over their creations. An elderly man nearest them tightened a screw on the legs of a golden grasshopper, which kicked twice on the table in response.

“Welcome,” said Alexsandr, “to one of the finest workshops for the House of Fabergé.”

Konstantin didn’t know where to look first. Lilies of the valley blossomed in pearl on a music box carved from jade; a sailing yacht in gold sailed over a crystal lake; enameled honeybees buzzed filigree wings.

“Marvelous!” He bent over a bee. “What powers the clockwork?”

The jeweler replied in halting German. “Is mechanical.”

Konstantin doubted a honeybee so diminutive could operate on clockwork alone, and he saw no key or winding device. While flying from Vienna, they had been attacked by clockwork wasps. After dissecting a specimen, he determined it to be powered by psychothaumaturgy—a soul trapped in a diabolical mechanism. Much like the clockwork dragon, though the bigger beast possessed a soul of immense power.

Himmel glanced around, his face impassive, rather less than impressed. “Is this it?”

“Hardly.” Alexsandr’s smile didn’t touch his eyes. “You see, the demand for the House of Fabergé is considerable. Upon completion, our jewelry travels to the finest boutiques and palaces in Russia, including the homes of the Tsar himself.”

“He must enjoy your trinkets.”

Alexsandr didn’t blink. “Very much.”

Baron von Bach coughed, with a pointed glance at Himmel. “Shall we continue? I’m positively famished.”

“Certainly.”

Konstantin fished out his pocketwatch; it was only five o’clock, hardly dinnertime. He wished he could inspect the workshop. These music boxes and mechanical bees, though only ornamental, hinted at a sophistication in technomancy he rarely encountered. Perhaps he could convince their chaperone to return another day.

As they exited the workshop, he kept pace with the Russian. “Alexsandr?”

“Please go on.”

“May I inquire about your occupation?”

A smile flickered over his face. “Tonight, your guide.”

“Otherwise?”

“In the Imperial Russian Navy, I am a Senior Lieutenant.”

Himmel snorted, none too subtly, no doubt pleased he outranked the Russian. He served as a Frigate Captain for the German Empire before transferring to the Naval Airship Division and commanding his first zeppelin. When the Archmages of Vienna sought an airship captain, Himmel came highly recommended.

This talented—and damned observant—man caught Konstantin staring at him. “Yes?”

His ears burned. “Carry on.”

Alexsandr glanced between their faces, his eyes sharpening, though he didn’t comment.

God, this wasn’t going to work. He had to ignore Himmel or suffer the consequences. As if he could.

The Grand Hotel Europe in St. Petersburg glimmered with ostentatious flourishes. Marble, gilding, and all the usual five-star luxuries adorned the lobby; silk damask wallpapered Konstantin’s room. When he tipped the porter for bringing his luggage, the hotelman pursed his lips at the apparently paltry amount.

“Wait.” Konstantin dug out another handful of silver rubles. “Take these.”

“Thank you, sir.” The porter took the money and bowed out of the room.

With a grunt, Konstantin dragged a suitcase onto the rug and unlocked the clasps. He checked the technomancy equipment inside, running his hands over the dials and brass knobs. Everything seemed to be in order.

Perhaps the exorbitant tip to the porter had been warranted.

The next suitcase contained something far less interesting: his clothes for tonight’s dinner. Konstantin dressed in a suit with a white waistcoat and spent a full ten minutes before the mirror, tying and retying his cravat. He pinned a golden edelweiss to his lapel, the flower symbolizing the Archmages of Vienna. It would hardly do to look shabby around the Russians, no matter what Baron von Bach said about the dress code.