Heart of Steel (17 page)

“I've already promised you my heart.”

“Not
our
blood.” She tossed a glance to the next table, where a tangle of men beat each other senseless. At the bar, a whore had her legs locked around a sailor's thick neck and her hands over his eyes while a female aviator pummeled his stomach. The other end of the tavern was a mass of shouting and punching, tables tipping and glass breaking. “Theirs. And we'll see how well we watch each other's backs.”

Archimedes grinned and shrugged out of his jacket. Far quicker than he, she was already across the room before he stood—and he took a few seconds to watch Yasmeen's very delectable back before a burly woman picked up a chair to swing at it. With a whoop, he dove in.

 

 

His head throbbed again, but not with drink—and instead
of Yasmeen's knife at his throat, her arm supported his waist. She hadn't stopped laughing since pulling him up from the tavern floor and half-carrying him out to the docks. Her arms were warm and strong, and Archimedes thought that he'd let himself be coshed over the head more often.

Which might, he realized, be the sort of thought only a coshed brain would have.

Her feet slid on the icy boards. Archimedes braced his own, caught her against him, his arm hooked around her waist.
Heaven.
Swearing, she steadied herself and lifted her hand, signaling for a steamcoach idling near a cabstand. As soon as it began puttering toward them, she looked up into his face. Her fingers touched his forehead and came away with a bit of blood.

She shook her head. “I yelled a warning that she was behind you.”

He'd heard, he'd looked. “She winked at me.”

“Idiot,” she said, with no real bite to it. “Barmaids live to smash brawlers over their heads and steal their purses. You're lucky she only got away with your waistcoat.”

He sighed. “My favorite, too.”

“I like the blue best.”

“Then it's not such a loss, after all.”

They both backed up a few steps as the rattling coach slid to a stop next to them. Yasmeen called the direction of his boardinghouse up to the driver.
Then to the docks, where she'd row out to Vesuvius?
Archimedes didn't ask, didn't dare presume. He opened the carriage door, and though she rolled her eyes when he held out his hand, her fingers folded over his as she climbed aboard.

He'd barely seated himself before she climbed aboard
him
.

His breathing stopped. She straddled his legs, the inner muscles of her thighs taut. His hands caught her waist. The coach lurched into motion. She fell against him and he felt the press of her breasts into his chest, the play of her fingers through the back of his hair. In the dark, he couldn't see her expression, but there was no mistaking the warm purr in her voice when she said, “Perhaps we ought to seal our agreement in another way, Mr. Fox.”

A devil's choice. Archimedes clenched his teeth against the answer his body demanded him to give. She was still drunk. This would just be a fuck—for her. He wanted more.

But he didn't want to reject her. Her pride was an enormous thing, and even his tongue might not be able to soothe this wound.

Her hot mouth found his neck. A tortured groan welled up from his chest, and she laughed softly. Sharp teeth grazed his jaw before her lips tugged on his earlobe.

“You hold my waist, yet you're all but holding me away,” she said into his ear. “Is this a no?”

God help him. “Yes.”

“A pity. You'd fall in love with me
much
faster.”

No doubt. “I don't want to fall in love too quickly and miss every emotion along the way—even if it leads to frustration and pain.”

“Truly?” Though unable to see her, he sensed that she was studying his expression. “You're an unusual man, Mr. Fox.”

Then her weight and warmth were gone, his body left aching. A spark lighter flared in the seat opposite; he saw her face, the amused smile, and his cigarillo case—he hadn't even felt her lift it—before the light died.

“Stay with me anyway,” he said. “Don't row out to
Vesuvius
this late. Sleep in my room.”

“I don't
sleep
in the same bed as a man.”

Of course she wouldn't. Not after Bloody Bartholomew. “I'll use the floor.”

“Uncomfortable for you.”

Better than fishing her body out of the harbor. “There's an empty room next to mine,” he said. “Sleep there tonight, and I'll explain it to the house matron in the morning.”

Her pause told him she was considering it. “All right. I'll need a room soon, anyway.”

“When does
Vesuvius
sail out?”

“In a few more days.”

The coach shuddered to a halt. Yasmeen didn't wait for him to open the door. Hopping out, she flicked a coin to the driver. So he
had
hurt her pride, and now she was stabbing at his—but he'd known she was a difficult woman.

That didn't make her paying for the cab sting less, especially now that he knew how little money she had. Gritting his teeth, Archimedes followed her through the boardinghouse entrance. A small lamp offered feeble light in the foyer. A boy in tweed trousers, coat, and hat slept on a bench against the wall. Probably some urchin who'd sneaked in from the cold. When Archimedes closed the door, he jerked awake and blinked owlishly.

“Stay there if you like,” Archimedes told him as he passed the bench. “I won't alert the matron.”

“She knows I'm here, sir.” The boy rubbed his face. “Mr. Gunther-Baptiste?”

Archimedes froze. Ahead, Yasmeen turned smoothly, as if she'd never been headed in the opposite direction. Her gaze found his before she glanced past him, peering into the next room as if searching the darkened parlor for more visitors.

He faced the boy. “I am.”

“A message, sir.” The boy offered him a letter, the paper rolled and tied with a string rather than folded and sealed. “He told me to wait for you. He said if you couldn't come tonight, to please send a reply that you will come tomorrow morning.”

Dread clutched at Archimedes' throat, but he took the message and moved closer to the lamp. The Arabic script was small, neat.

Archimedes glanced up at the boy. “Hail that cab again. Tell him to wait for me.”

The boy darted for the door.

“Shall I come?” Yasmeen said. Her fingers rested lightly on the knives sheathed at her thighs.

“No.” He wouldn't risk her. “It's only an old friend, but I don't know when I'll return. Take my room tonight; I'll take the other if I need it.”

“Are you certain?” Her gaze slipped over his face as if searching out the truth.

God. He should have kissed her in the cab. But if he kissed her in desperation now, no doubt she'd follow him. “I'm certain,” he said. “Sleep well, Captain.”

She smiled and turned for the stairs. “Beware the barmaids, Mr. Fox.”

Hopefully, that would be
all
that he had to beware.

Chapter Six

Hassan's lodgings lay beyond the first canal, in the heart of
Port Fallow's wealthy ring of residences. Archimedes knew the location; when his purse had been heavier, he'd spent several nights in a suite of well-appointed rooms. But although they were larger and more comfortable than in Archimedes' current boardinghouse, they hardly befitted Temür Agha's prime counselor.

So did the lack of guards and attention that Archimedes received upon his arrival. A liveried house porter showed him inside, led him up the stairs. The door of Hassan's suite opened to the porter's quiet tapping.

Opened by Hassan himself. A grin widened his bearded cheeks. He spread his arms in welcome, the loose sleeves of his knee-length tunic billowing with the movement. A rectangular bulge beneath the linen was the only remaining evidence of the apparatus that had once been grafted to his chest, designed for labor in the Rabat salt factories. The lung tanks had allowed him to remain beneath the surface of the salinity pools while he cleaned the crystallization from the filters—and now, lent a deep metallic resonance to his every breath and word.

“Wolfram!” He came forward, clasping Archimedes' hand between his. “It is very good to see you.”

A warmer greeting than Archimedes anticipated—or deserved, perhaps. Hassan couldn't have known that Archimedes had deliberately sunk the barge that carried Temür Agha's war machines rather than simply losing the shipment, but the counselor might have guessed.

“As it is to see you, Hassan,” he replied. “Though unexpected.”

“Yes, well—Come. Come inside. I will explain all.”

Archimedes followed, disconcerted by the counselor's ebullience. Though he knew the cause of the difference—Hassan was far enough from the Horde's control tower in Rabat that the radio signal couldn't suppress his emotions—in every previous meeting, the counselor had been reserved, choosing each word thoughtfully.

Archimedes was glad for the man, though if Hassan hadn't had much time to adjust to the change, the counselor might be hoping for a swift return to Morocco. Archimedes had once experienced the tower's dampening effect, and the terrifying inability to feel what he'd
known
he ought to feel still lingered like a cancer in his mind. Yet Hassan had lived his entire life under its influence. It was possible that the strength of the man's emotions would be more frightening than the lack of them.

For now, however, Hassan only seemed filled with pleasure at seeing him.

A parlor decorated in pale blues lay to the left. Though three men—two in French naval uniforms, and another as simply dressed as Hassan—were standing around a card table with a large map spread between them, Hassan led him to a sitting room. More rolled letters lay atop a writing desk. A window looked over the tree-lined canal, the bare branches flocked with ice and snow. Hassan gestured to two armchairs flanking the open fireplace.

The counselor settled into the chair nearest the flames. “You'll forgive me. I feel the cold to my bones here. Do you see the gray?” He lifted his chin, stroked his fingers through his curly black beard. “I grow old. Has it been ten years since I saw you last?”

“Not quite nine,” Archimedes said.

“Ah, yes. Yes.” A faint smile touched the man's mouth. “I can still hear Temür's rage echoing through the
kasbah
when word of the barge's destruction came. Much has changed since that day. But not
enough
has changed.”

And with that single statement, the counselor's reserve returned—but it wasn't completely familiar. Weariness accompanied it now, the sort that Archimedes usually saw in soldiers who'd been at war for too long, and with no end to the fighting in sight.

“What would you change?”

“We have long been under the foot of the Horde, Wolfram, and Temür has sacrificed much to lift it. But now the heel is his.”

From rebel to dictator. “I'm sorry to hear that.”

But not completely surprised. A man with as much power as Temür would not give it up easily, no matter his intentions at the beginning.

The man nodded once, an understated gesture that said Archimedes' sorrow was nothing to his. A deep sigh resonated from his chest. “You have always been a friend to the Horde rebels, Wolfram. I wonder now if you will be a friend to the rebels in Rabat.”

“I didn't know there
were
rebels in Rabat.”

“A growing number, led by Kareem al-Amazigh.” He tilted his head toward the door, as if indicating the man Archimedes had seen in the parlor. “He inspires many of us and reminds our people of the old ways, but we are a people who have not fought for centuries. We need to light a fire beneath them—as was done in England, when the fall of the tower sparked the revolution and drove the Horde out.”

“But you want to drive Temür out,” Archimedes guessed.

“Yes. And if God wishes it, to put a new man in his place—to create a hero, as the Iron Duke became when he destroyed the tower in London.”

“For this, you want my help?” Archimedes grinned. “I
do
have the looks of a hero.”

“You have never been serious. It is fortunate that I know you, or I would believe you mock our struggle.”

“Never that.”

“Which is why I met with you alone. Kareem does not know your heart. Please consider that when you speak with him.” Hassan leaned forward, holding his hands to the fire. “You provided the Iron Duke with explosives.”

Was this the help that he wanted Archimedes to give? Shaking his head, Archimedes said, “I procured those through Temür. I can't find more for you, not quickly.”

And his obligation to Yasmeen came first.

But Hassan made a sweeping motion, as if to return his response. “No, this is not what I hope for. We have a man to supply the weapons, but we do not have the money. This is why we turn to you.”

For money? Archimedes had to laugh. “My purse is light, old friend.”

“You misunderstand me. I know your life has moved away from smuggling. It is your new occupation that interests us. We will not plunder our own people, but there are treasures of value to the north, and they all belong to no one. Treasures like the da Vinci sketch you discovered.”