Curio (41 page)

“Sit down, Whit,” Haimon commanded.

He clutched for the surface of a table, missed, and staggered.

“I'm not going to stripe you, Whit. Now sit down before you keel over.”

He stumbled into the padded chair and covered his face with his hands. When he could look up again, the heat of shame stung his cheeks. But Marina watched Haimon's preparations with the same blank expression she'd worn in the truck.

“Almost ready.” Haimon adjusted the tube running from the syringe to the box containing a swishing bellows.

“I don't understand. Why do you have—?” He pointed to the contrivance.

“An exsanguinator? It makes all of this”—Haimon's eyes traveled around the lab—“a bit more convenient.” With that he plunged the lancet into a vein in his arm. The bellows pumped, and blood flowed out of Haimon's arm, then through one of the rubber tubes attached to the instrument and into a glass vial. The whole process took seconds. Haimon pulled the needle from his flesh and pressed a bandage to the wound.

“Is that how you got all your scars? I thought you'd broken the law. A lot.”

Haimon's lips twisted into a rueful smile. “My scars are not from our research.” He switched off the machine and removed the rubber tube from the vial on the counter. Then he detached the hose from the bellows apparatus and placed it in a basin.

When Haimon poured the tube of his own blood into a beaker of green potion, a bubble of unease expanded in Whit's gut. Just who was this man who'd worked alongside Grey's grandfather? Not a hint of the Chemist coloring
showed in Haimon's features. In fact, no hint of color whatsoever marked the thin, gray man. Whit opened his mouth to probe further, but Haimon spoke, his back to the room.

“Bring me the gauntlet writer you stole.”

Marina pushed up from a narrow faded sofa positioned against one wall. An untouched biscuit slid from her knee to the floor. She hadn't spoken since Haimon raided a stash of food in one of the cabinets and divvied it up between them. She pulled the writing device from her coat without a word of apology and handed it to Haimon.

He gave her a sideways glance. “You memorized the position of the magnetic dials on the other device?”

She nodded.

“Clever girl.”

Whit left his chair and stepped closer to the counter. A pungent scent, a mixture of rust and a sulfur smell he associated with the gold mills in the Northern Quarter, invaded his nose. Haimon dipped a dropper into the noxious green mixture and filled it. He thumbed open a compartment on the gauntlet writer and inserted the potion into the device.

The dull platen turned a vibrant green and a glow outlined the letter keys. Haimon handed the gauntlet sleeve back to Marina. “Adjust these dials to match those on the other writer. If the one your brother has still has a bit of potion in the workings, it might pick up your message.”

Marina snatched the gauntlet writer and scurried back to the sofa, where she huddled over the device, punching letters with one finger.

Whit kept his voice low. “What do you know about unregistered prisoners? What will they do to Marina's brother?”

Haimon turned back to his potions. “They'll take him to the Chemist tower. All unregistereds are checked for Defender characteristics.”

“Defenders? Aren't they all dead?”

Haimon squinted at Whit. “Your history books are wrong. Oh, the Defender Cleanse happened, and the Chemists would like you to think they're all gone. But a few remain, still walking among us. And the Chemist fear more will arise.”

Whit shook his head. “Weren't they giants? How could they go unnoticed?”

“Not giants, although most tend to be large of stature. Here in the Foothills Quarter, they might be called Outsiders.”

“But the Defenders came from the Old Country. They were immune to the First Disease. All the Outsiders who come to Mercury fall prey to common ailments and seek the Chemists' potions.” Marina's family had, and though the illegal ration they purchased saved them from influenza, they still succumbed to potion dependence.

Haimon turned to Whit. “Defenders are a mutation, just like Chemists.”

“I don't understand. The Chemists claim to be a superior race. How could they be a mutation?”

“Again, your history books are wrong. The First Disease and the actions of an alchemy coven created the Chemists as you know them now, as well as the potion dependence. The Defenders arose out of necessity. Nature counterbalances itself, but there are always those who seek dominion, not balance.”

Whit's gaze landed on the black curtain hanging beneath the staircase, concealing even more of Haimon and the Hawards' secrets. He didn't look away from the heavy cloth when he asked his next question. “What really happened a hundred years ago?”

“Oh, it goes farther than a hundred years. Almost three hundred, in fact. In the seventeenth century, a remote hospice in the Alps harbored a coven of alchemists who fled
persecution in their own country. But within the ranks of the foreigners, who called themselves Regians, bitter conflict raged. While some of the alchemists sought knowledge for the betterment of humankind, others delved for unnatural secrets: ill-gotten wealth, power, and eternal life. They teetered on the edge of a great schism when Olan Harvardsson arrived and became the spark that ignited the growing feud.”

“Olan Havard—”

“You know him as Olan Haward, Grey's grandfather. He did indeed carry what we now refer to as the First Disease, a plague that had swept all of Italy and claimed Olan's parents. But Olan survived with the help of the noble alchemist Balthasar and a miraculous secret even Balthasar didn't know.

“Alas, Balthasar's brother-in-law, Adamarin, was already twisted by his desire for power. He was convinced Balthasar possessed alchemic knowledge he refused to share. When Adamarin saw that Balthasar's family lived while Adamarin's own son neared death, he went mad. He took Balthasar's life, using his blood in an elixir that changed all who drank it—the alchemist clan, the servants, and the monastic brotherhood within the hospice. The alchemists gained the terrible power of Chemia, and the others, though cured of the lung ailment, were left unable to digest food.

“Olan, now the defender and guardian of an ancient wellspring, rushed to share this miraculous curative with those suffering, but it was too late. The evil of Adamarin's blood magic could only be counterbalanced with an equally horrible solution—a potion made of Olan's blood. Olan gave his lifeblood and continued to give it until his ossification. And that is the truth of the Defender justice system.”

Whit leaned against the counter to keep from staggering. “But the subjugation. The whipping boy practices.”

“A symbolic system from our early days as a colony in the New World, meant to keep Chemist blood greed in check.”

Whit's head swam. The daydreams of history class returned and he pictured evil giants battling Chemists for dominance in a war that claimed the lives of innocent, potion-dependent citizens. His instructor at the Council Boys' School had said the bloodshed only ended when the Chemists wiped out every last Defender. His head snapped up. “There were more, not just Olan but Steinar and”—he cleared his throat—“Grey. Grey is one too, isn't she?”

Iron eyes studied Whit, as if testing his trustworthiness. For a moment he let his cloak of anger and shame slip away, and he was again the boy who'd grown up with Grey Haward. Whatever else she might be, she was first his friend. He put the depth of his connection with the Haward family in his voice. “I would never betray her.”

Haimon nodded. “Grey is special. Her father is a Defender, son of Olan and Valera, two Defenders. Her mother is descended from the potion-dependent servants of the hospice, who have passed down the starvation trait generation to generation. Both Grey and her brother were given potion as a precaution. But Olan believed their Defender blood could overcome the starvation trait. He believed it when Banner gave his potion away and was arrested, and he believed it when Grey stood between you and the deputies. If he was right, a potion made of Grey's blood could be the key to the cure we've sought.”

Whit shaded his eyes, but in the darkness of his cupped hand he saw the Hawards' faces and the world he knew—Chemia and rations—through a blood-red veil. This sick system of blood magic and blood dependence must end, but at what cost to Grey? “Where is she?” He dropped his hand. “Where is Grey? Adante said something about the cabinet.”

Haimon retrieved the lantern he'd hung on a hook and motioned for Whit to follow. At the black curtain, he paused. “Adante made a prison for the one Defender whose existence must remain hidden from the Chemist Council. Blaise Amintore is the foundation upon which a treaty was built between the Defenders and the Chemists. The Defenders willingly surrendered in exchange for Council Head Jorn Amintore's promise to end further blood experimentation. Olan and Steinar were allowed to continue their work in service to Mercury's citizens because they alone know who and what Blaise is.” A bitter smile snagged Haimon's lips. “My own existence was the convenient means of Blaise's imprisonment. But when the Chemia didn't kill me, Adante made me into a warden of sorts.”

Haimon pulled the curtain aside, revealing a crude hole in the wall beneath the stairs. Whit ducked through the opening after his guide. A low-ceilinged cavern with a dirt floor opened before them.

Whit squinted at the glass wall dividing the room. “What is that?” He walked closer, hand out to examine the strange rectangular pillar.

“I wouldn't touch it.” Haimon shuffled up next to him. “We don't know what makes it grow, and, well, the bigger it is, the more chance they have of getting lost in there.”

CHAPTER

25

T
he walking carriage dipped and swayed, and Blaise's stomach echoed the motion. His shoulder burned, the pain eclipsing all other thought. He worked at the harness of his steam pack with his right hand. It felt wrong to surrender his precious wings, even if they were damaged, but the weight on his shoulder forced his decision.

Ames Weatherton turned his attention from the wreckage outside his conveyance to Blaise. Speaking at a normal volume, the wealthy porcie's voice lost some of its harshness.

“I take it you are damaged?” He leaned closer. Bits of ash mingled with his black hair. “Ah, your flying apparatus detaches.”

Blaise shrugged out of the harness and shifted his steam pack to the floor. No reason to put this off any longer. The porcie's keen eyes already scrutinized him. Blaise shoved his goggles up on top of his head and unclasped his mouthpiece, leaving the metal grid to dangle off his face.

Weatherton's obsidian eyes sparked. For a moment he said nothing, then he took a seat on the other end of the bench so they faced each other. “You are like Lord Blueboy's new masterpiece, the supple porcelain. I met the fascinating Miss Grey at a sip last week.”

Blaise controlled the curl of his lip. “Grey and I are not pieces to be collected.”

Weatherton either didn't hear or chose to ignore the warning in Blaise's voice.

“We were not permitted to touch her beyond a clasp of the hand, but from the way Blueboy handled her I could tell—”

Blaise lunged, snatching the porcie's gloved hand with his good arm and throwing all his weight against Weatherton's wrist. Any second he'd hear the crack of breaking porcelain.

Metal fingers closed around his arms, yanking him off Weatherton and pinning his hands behind his back. Pain seared his shoulder.

“Here now.” Weatherton righted himself and glared. “What was that about?”

Blaise swore. “I told you, Grey is not a piece of art. She's not a toy to be handled. She's . . . she's . . .”
Mine.
He bit back the word. He'd be just as bad as these foolish creatures if he made a claim on Grey, if he lied to her about who he really was and what he'd done. If he kissed her and touched her, letting her believe he'd only done good here in Curio.

He thrashed against the vise grip of Weatherton's serving tock.

“Let him go, Brahman.”

The tock released him, and Blaise stood in the walking carriage, staring at the aristocratic porcie whose hydro hub he'd attacked. Weatherton straightened his clothes. Eyes on his cuffs, he said to Blaise, “Do sit down so that we may carry on.”

Blaise considered the odds of jumping from the walking carriage, landing without further injury, and escaping. They weren't good. He sat down.

As the carriage rocked into motion, Weatherton eyed the crumpled body of Gagnon resting under the control console. He chuckled under his breath.

“The leader of the Valor Society, is he?”

Blaise said nothing.

Weatherton's gaze snapped to his face. “Is that what you believe?”

Again, Blaise kept silent.