Of Silk and Steam (6 page)

“But ’e’ll go,” Blade murmured, a dark light gleaming in his eyes.

“He’ll go,” Garrett agreed. “We cannot afford for him not to.”

“Extra, Extra, read all about it! Airship stolen from the Venetian Gardens last night by a gang of vigilantes! The pilot admits he was overpowered, and Lord M— demands more Nighthawks on the streets to protect good, loyal citizens!”

—Paperboy overheard by Leo Barrons

Leo had barely returned from the rookery, easing his shoulders out of his coat, when his butler appeared with a carefully folded piece of parchment resting on a silver salver. The red wax seal bore the stamp of the Duke of Morioch, the current Chair for the Council of Dukes.

Leo slid the coat back over his shoulders and took the missive with a sigh. “No other messages?” he asked, feeling weary to the bone. No sleep in over twenty-four hours would do that to a body, and the previous month in Russia had been taxing. The Russian Court made the Echelon look like a bunch of lambs.

“Your father’s footman arrived to schedule your chess game,” Montgomery replied with a sonorous air. “Today at five, if it please my lord.”

Not so much a request as a summons. Though he was the duke’s heir, they’d barely spoken in more than three years, not since Leo had cost Caine much in the political arena by helping Blade duel Vickers, the Duke of Lannister.

The chess games, however, were regular occurrences that Leo indulged his father with, though he didn’t know why he bothered or why the duke even requested them. They barely spoke and Caine trumped him almost every time, berating him for his lack of forethought.

No doubt the duke wanted to know about the Russian situation. Though his illness kept him indoors and out of polite society, Caine still hungered for control over the Council meetings Leo was forced to attend in his place.

Flipping his thumbnail beneath the wax, Leo broke the seal and jerked his gaze over the elegant gold writing. A meeting. At twelve. “
Ballocks
,” he muttered.

“My lord?”

The enormous longcase clock in the hallway ticked with impertinence, a pointed reminder that Leo had barely half an hour to make the meeting. “Send for the steam coach. Where’s Morrissey?” His valet would have to cut short his efforts today and be satisfied with simply laying out something for Leo to wear.

“I’ll ring for him, my lord.”

“Excellent.” Sailing up the stairs, Leo examined the letter again.
A
formal
request
for
your
presence
in
the
face
of
a
most
unfortunate
event…
He could well imagine what that would be.

Fifteen minutes later, he left poor Morrissey trailing behind him with a bottle of cologne as he descended the stairs. The man had had to make do with a mandarin-collared black coat that negated the need for anything fancy, like a cravat, and a pair of tight black trousers. Leo swung out the door with his top hat and an ebony-handled cane that concealed a diamond-edged sword.

He’d barely had time for a shave, though he had managed to tie his hair back in a neat queue. His hair was longer than he usually wore it and he’d considered cutting it, but something stopped him. The duchess’s fingers making a fist in it as she tilted her mouth up to his, perhaps. Hardly the sort of thing a man was likely to forget.

She’d be there today. The thought fired his blood and left him tapping the top of the coach as he settled inside it and rested his elbow on the open window. At least there was one damned thing to look forward to.

* * *

“You’re late,” Morioch said, tapping his fingers on the polished mahogany table.

It stretched across the Council chambers, surrounded by nine seats. The prince consort sat at the far end, with the queen’s empty chair beside him and slightly behind. The queen herself was standing and staring through the windows out over the city. Maybe wishing for escape—or dreaming of it. The scent of laudanum often clung to her breath, and her eyes frequently held the distant gaze of someone in another world.

“I only received your missive a half hour ago,” Leo replied, handing his top hat and cane to the nearest footman.

Morioch’s lips thinned. “Can we call this session to order then?”

Leo smiled with a flash of bared teeth and took his time taking his seat. Only then did he let his gaze rest on the empty chair across from him. Goethe’s chair.

“We’re not all here yet,” Lynch murmured. The former Nighthawk master’s hair was dark and neatly combed. Wearing an unembellished gray suit with a black waistcoat, he fiddled with a gold pocket watch. His hawkish gray eyes pinned Morioch down as if he were a bug tacked to a lepidopterist’s board.

Seven months ago, Lynch had dueled his uncle for the seat of the House of Bleight and was proving both a formidable adversary for the prince consort and a loyal ally for Leo and his quiet revolution. With the recent fracture of the Council—the loss of three dukes within the last three years—Leo was grateful to have someone he could count on for sense. Granted, Lynch didn’t always side with him; the man was no puppet, after all, and they both had strong opinions, but it was still a relief to have someone else stand up against the prince consort’s sporadic cruelties and small bouts of what Leo politely termed madness.

A tall man stepped out of the corner, his blond hair gleaming with faint reddish highlights. He withdrew a large piece of black silk from his waistcoat pocket. Leo stiffened, though he forced his fingers to keep drumming on the table. Balfour was the prince consort’s spymaster—and the hand on the leash of the Falcons.

Shaking out the silk, Balfour draped it over Goethe’s chair and stepped back against the wall, hands clasped behind him.

Silence ruled the room, broken only by the queen’s startled gasp. A horrified expression crossed her face, her gloved fingers touching her lips. She hadn’t known.

Despite himself, Leo glanced at the Duchess of Casavian, who was sitting directly across from him. He hadn’t dared look at her when he entered; nobody could know about last night. The small mechanical jeweled spider she often wore tethered to her breast by a pin crawled across her shoulder. Mina sat perfectly still, her face so pale she might have been wearing rice powder. As if sensing his gaze, she looked up, her eyes meeting his. An expression of grief flickered through them as she glanced sideways—at the queen, perhaps—before she brought her expression under control.

Lynch was the first to break the silence. “When did this happen?”

“This morning, my reports tell me.” The prince consort leaned back in his throne-like chair. “Your young protégé Garrett Reed is working the case. A young woman reports seeing Goethe on the edge of Whitechapel before he was murdered by the Devil’s own hand—”

“Blade did this?” Lynch asked. “It seems highly out of character. Also, what in blazes was Goethe doing in Whitechapel?”

The prince consort’s satisfaction dimmed slightly. “So the young lady reports.”

“Mmm.” Lynch scratched his jaw. “Perhaps I’d best discuss it with Garrett.”

“I’m certain your man has it well in hand—”

“Of course, but we’re speaking about the murder of a duke and the possibility of war with Whitechapel.” Lynch’s voice became flat with authority. “We would want to be absolutely certain that the Devil of Whitechapel is guilty before we commit to this. I needn’t remind you what happened fifty years ago when King George attempted to extract Blade from the rookeries.”

“The mobs rose,” Leo murmured, “and the city burned, and despite all of our technology, we were forced back within the city limits.”

The prince consort’s lips thinned. “Time changes a great deal. Technology has improved. The presence of the Trojan cavalry sees to that.”

The enormous steel horses were sent out in force, their iron-plated hooves crushing through a mob like a threshing machine. They were the first thing the prince consort had insisted on creating nearly thirteen years ago after he overthrew the human king and became regent.

Leo’s fingers stilled. Thirteen years ago the prince consort had charged the royal blacksmiths with creating a weapon that could be used against the only thing that had ever challenged the Echelon: a mob. Could it have been serendipity, or something far more sinister? The first steps in some long-reaching plan to rid himself of those whose very presence challenged his rule?

Blade’s legend gave the humans of the city hope. If Leo were in the prince consort’s shoes, the first thing he would do would be to destroy that legend and prove that not even the Devil himself was untouchable.

And then? Leo’s gaze shifted to that scrap of black silk. While the people in the streets might whisper that life would change, should their queen hold power, the truth remained—the ruling Council of Dukes were the only other gainsay to the prince consort, able to overrule him if they chose. And for years, the prince consort had held most of the vote, with four of the seven dukes in his pocket. The deceased Dukes of Lannister had both voted his way, and Morioch was fanatically loyal, as were the former Duke of Bleight and, of course, Caine. In the past three years, however, the Dukes of Lannister had both died; Lynch had overthrown Bleight; and Caine’s illness had thrust Leo onto the Council as his proxy.

The only trump card the prince consort owned was the queen. She could, if pressed, overrule the Council’s decision by right of regency.

Now two chairs stood empty: Goethe’s chair and the one that the Dukes of Lannister had used.

What if Goethe’s murder was simply the prince consort’s way to even the score? If a new, amenable Council was instated, the prince consort would hold complete power again.

Dashed clever, if Leo was correct. Not just a move on Blade then, but on all of the dukes who opposed him.

Prepared to speak, Leo paused as movement caught his eye. The queen was slowly coming toward the table. “You didn’t tell me,” she said, staring at that damning scrap of black silk. “You knew all morning, didn’t you? That he was dead. That Manderlay was dead.”

All eyes shot to her, including her husband’s. He reached for her hand but she jerked it to her chest, staring down at him with wide, devastated eyes.

Manderlay
. A rather more intimate title than Goethe. Leo was drawing conclusions, as he suspected several others were too.

“Your Highness,” the duchess murmured. She slid out of her chair with extraordinary grace as she crossed to the queen’s side. “I think it best if we retire to your chambers. You’re looking peaked—”

“
Peaked?
”

“Alexandra,” the prince consort said, the word heavily laced with reprimand. “Hardly the time to create a scene.”

Instead of putting her in her place, as his words so often did, they seemed to ignite her. The queen’s eyes blazed to life, her laudanum-soaked haze sliding off her as fury raised something Leo had never seen in her before.

“How
dare
you speak to me like that?” she demanded. “How dare you—”

The sound of the duchess’s slap ricocheted around the chambers. Everybody froze as the queen drew in a harsh breath, her hand going to her reddened cheek.

The Duchess of Casavian seemed to collect herself, as if she too had been shocked by her own actions. “My prince, it seems Her Highness is overwrought by the excitement of the day. With your permission, I believe it time for her to retire.”

“An excellent suggestion,” the prince consort murmured. “Perhaps you should teach her some restraint, while you’re at it. Or I will.”

That was the first time he’d ever explicitly spoken of what went on behind closed doors. It wasn’t the first time the queen had worn a bruise. It wouldn’t be the last. The air in the chamber seemed to grow thinner, and Leo’s fingers clenched on the table. “Your Highness—”

“Your opinion is not necessary—or desired—at this moment. My wife is overwhelmed. I think it time for her to rest.” He gave the duchess a clipped nod.

The duchess replied with a more formal bow of the head. A little tremble started in the queen’s hands but she hid it well, curling her pale silk gloves in her skirts.

There was nothing he could do, was there? To speak out would earn him little more than a spoken reprimand, but it might cost the queen far more than that. The prince consort could do as he liked with her. She was his wife, after all, no matter how poorly it sat. Still, the only thing keeping Leo’s mouth shut at this moment was the knowledge that he could only cause the queen more pain.

Soon
we’ll be in a position to overthrow him
. The thought eased some of the guilt.
Then
nobody
will
ever
lift
a
hand
to
her
again
.

Slowly his gaze lifted to Lynch’s, both of them sharing the same grim expression. Lynch gave a little shake of his head.

“Now, where were we?” Morioch drawled as the duchess took the queen in hand, her fingers locking around one of those slender gloved wrists.

Leo couldn’t help watching them leave the room while slowly sinking back into his seat. He also couldn’t help frowning as the queen scurried to keep pace with the taller duchess.

It was the first time he’d ever been disappointed in the duchess.

Rumors Unfounded, States the Prince Consort

Recent whisperings in the general populace and certain publications have put a strain on the government, with the news that the humanist revolutionary leader Mordecai Hughes, who was executed seven months ago, was not, in fact, truly the mastermind behind the humanist movement. Though the humanists have seemingly vanished back into the populace since Hughes was unmasked as Mercury and executed on crimes of treason, propaganda pamphlets perpetuating this rumor are now being widely circulated among the human classes.

The prince consort and the Council of Dukes have recently released a statement confirming that Hughes was indeed the mastermind behind the bombing of the Ivory Tower and the attempted terrorist attack at the opera last autumn. Persistent rumor among the lower classes, however, suggests that Mercury was never one person, but merely a persona worn by several humanists to protect the true mastermind.

Cause to wonder, perhaps, who truly is in charge of the humanists? For if “Mercury” has many faces, someone must be in control. Despite the prince consort’s assurances, argument suggests that we haven’t seen the last of the humanists—or of the presumably faceless instigator behind this movement.

—
London
Standard

The queen’s bedchambers were light and airy as Mina marched her through the double doors. Gesturing for the maids to shut the doors and leave, she tipped her chin toward her one potential adversary in the room, the Countess of Baltimere.

Lady Baltimere’s eyes locked on the reddening handprint on the queen’s cheek. “Your Highness, would you care for some tea? Something—”

“That will be all.” Mina used her iciest voice. Baltimere would only liberally lace the tea with laudanum. “The queen and I have matters to discuss.”

Lady B. tipped her chin up. “Your Highness—”

“You heard her,” the queen whispered, the afternoon light highlighting the dark shadows beneath her eyes.

A tilt of the head, one adversary to another, then Lady B. was gone, shutting the doors behind her.

And suddenly Mina didn’t know what to say. Her shoulders slumped, her breath catching in her chest. “Your Highness—”

“Please. Don’t.” The queen crossed wearily to her dresser, sitting down and staring at her cheek in the mirror. Gently she lifted her hand toward the damning mark, touching it with the tip of her silk-clad fingers.

Mina’s hand tingled, as if remembering the blow. Her skirts swished as she crossed the luxurious carpets. If only she’d said no to the exchange of letters. This would never have happened and the queen—

The sight of the queen crushed her. She looked utterly hollow, as if she were only an automaton—moving, breathing, speaking, but not there. Manipulated by someone else.

“I had to do it,” Mina whispered, catching sight of herself in the mirror behind the queen. Her hands slid over those pale shoulders, squeezing gently. “You know I had to do it. We couldn’t afford to let him know—”

“Is it true?” Those lifeless eyes caught hers in the reflection. “What he said about Manderlay? About the Devil of Whitechapel murdering him?”

Manderlay
. A name only the queen used. Something caught in Mina’s chest and lodged there. Of all the blows the queen had taken over the years, this was the worst. “Part of it. He’s dead. I saw it happen.” And hadn’t stopped it. “But not by Blade’s hand. It was at the Venetian Gardens last night when I went to pass along your note to him.”

A single tear trailed down the queen’s left cheek. “Who?”

“Falcons.” Mina’s head bowed, her thumbs stroking the queen’s shoulders. “I couldn’t stop it. I barely made it out of there myself, though I did manage to retrieve your note—”

“
My
note. That’s why he died. This is because of me, isn’t it?”

There was no answer to that, though Mina tried, her mouth opening.
Of
course
not
. But she didn’t truly believe it. Her own fault was in allowing this flirtation to escalate. Nothing came out of her mouth, and the queen’s face screwed up in an expression Mina had never seen before: a mix of rage and grief and absolute devastation.

One of those gloved hands lashed out, smashing bottles of perfume off the dresser. Mina tried to catch them, exclaiming, “Alexa!” Another lash sent more bottles and the silver-backed brush tumbling in the other direction. A mess of cloying floral scent rose up as glass smashed on the floor, like a funeral gone badly wrong.

The queen fisted the enormous flacon of French perfume that her husband had given her for her birthday—and that she’d never worn. Mina held her hand out. “Please, don’t—”

It hit the mirror, cracks spearing out in the polished surface, obliterating their reflections. Mina caught the queen’s hands, trying to stop her. It would be far too easy to overpower her, human strength being nothing to her own, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it. Instead she clung to Alexandra’s arms, drawing the queen’s smaller frame back against her chest. The queen jerked, rapidly losing strength. Each yank became more and more feeble until she finally halted, Mina holding her much like a marionette.

Alexandra let out a sob that sounded as if she had been broken inside somewhere.

“Please, don’t,” Mina whispered, turning the queen in her arms. Pressing Alexandra’s face against her shoulder, she slid her hand through the other woman’s hair. “I’m so sorry. I should have saved him for you. I should have done something. I’m so, so sorry…” All of the so-called power she had accumulated over the years, and she couldn’t do a damned thing to fix this situation.

Except to kill the prince consort. A task that she’d often considered while she watched as he turned a vibrant, powerful young woman into someone barely managing to hold herself together. He was too closely protected by his honor guard or by Falcons. And what would happen if she failed? Then Alexa would have nobody.

“No,” the queen whispered, her tears leaching through Mina’s dress. “No, I know you couldn’t. I know you would have tried.”

It was dangerous to do this, even here. Mina kept an eye on the door. If anyone opened it and saw them like this, there would be no hiding the truth anymore, but she couldn’t let Alexandra go. The two women clung together, Mina making hushing noises as she stroked the queen’s hair.

Far better to be patient. To bring him down through carefully planned means. Frustration burned in her breast—the same frustration she knew the queen felt. “We’re so close to overthrowing him,” Mina whispered. “Mercury’s ‘death’ was a brief setback, but plans are continuing apace. Mercury’s work creating an automaton army is being continued in the other segments of the humanists under my control. The Ironmonger enclaves have already produced their quota of the automatons.”

That was their secret. They were building an army of automatons designed to encase a human within them, unlike the frequency-controlled metaljackets and the Trojan cavalry the Echelon commanded. Technology would provide what she herself could not—a way to destroy the man she hated above all others. A way to set her dearest friend free.

“I don’t know if I can do this…anymore.”

Squeezing her eyes shut, Mina pressed her lips against Alexandra’s forehead. “Don’t give up,” she whispered fiercely. “Do you remember the day we first met?”
Strolling
through
the
gardens
behind
the
Ivory
Tower
on
the
day
the
human
princess
was
to
marry, and finding her sobbing behind the rosebushes.
“I told you then to be brave. That you could be the most powerful woman in the Empire, if you dared. You could be a queen and save your people from the Echelon’s blood taxes and harsh laws.”

Of course, neither of them had known then how difficult such a road would be. Mina had been all of sixteen and the queen but two years older. The then-princess had no allies. The entire Echelon backed the prince consort’s regency, once he’d overthrown Alexa’s father. For Mina, finding the princess sobbing in the garden on her wedding day, the future had not seemed so dire. Marriage was expected for both of them. They were both highborn, their roles in life mapped out long ago—until the death of her own father and her subsequent infection with the craving had changed Mina’s life forever.

If she’d known…

Would
you
say
the
same
thing
to
her
again? Would you have set her on this path? Pushed her to marry a man who would slowly crush the life out of her?

She knew the answer to that, and it hurt terribly.

If she’d known the depths of the prince consort’s evil, Mina would have taken Alexa by the hand and never looked back. Instead, she’d helped trap her friend in a cruel marriage.

She squeezed Alexa tight, hating herself just a little.
I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t understand how bad it could be.
They were words that she could never utter. The only thing she could do was work to right this wrong.

“I want him dead,” the queen whispered. “I cannot—I do not know how much longer I can last.” Her voice broke just a little. “Every night I lie there, thinking about what would happen if I kept a knife under my pillow. If one night, once he was through with me, he would fall asleep and—”

“You would not succeed.” Mina closed her eyes, squeezing them tight. “Even if you did, you’re guarded only by Coldrush Guards and Falcons.
His
men. I couldn’t get to you before they did as they wished, and I cannot say how far their loyalty to the Crown stretches.” That was a thought that kept her awake most days. That Alexandra would do something rash and be cut down for it before Mina even knew.

“You’re correct.” But the words were lifeless, and suddenly Mina wondered if her queen truly cared whether she survived this or not.

Panic was a cold, spiraling coil deep inside her. “One day you’re going to be free of him. I promise you. Then you can be the ruler you want to be, beloved by the people. The type of ruler your grandfather was. You can cast down the Echelon if you desire, and return the humans and mechs to their rightful places. Imagine all of those lives you’re going to change—” Dreams that the queen had held for years, but Mina couldn’t quite hide the desperate note in her voice.
Fight, damn you. Just a little longer.
“All of the plans we’ve dreamed over the years…come to fruition.”

The queen stared hollowly at herself in the mirror. “Just once, I should like to be a woman first and not a queen.”

“You are a woman.” Mina kissed her cheek. “You’re the strongest, bravest woman I know.”

“You’re my strength,” Alexandra admitted, her gloved hand sliding over Mina’s. “I would have given up long before this without you.”

Would
have…
Mina let out a little breath of relief. “Give me time. Once we have enough of the Cyclops to defeat the prince consort’s metaljackets, we can take action. I shall begin selling off some of our business ventures to raise capital and push it into the humanist quadrants. They can work faster with more men, more money… Give me until the end of the year at least… I will win you your freedom if I have to kill him myself.”

Finally a spark of life came to light in the queen’s eyes. “I know you would but we cannot rush. Not without risking his attention. If this fails, it will kill me.”

“Then perhaps we can focus his attention elsewhere,” Mina suggested, letting go of Alexandra. “Send him on a wild-goose chase hunting humanists where there are none? I’ve begun seeding rumors through the newspapers, suggesting that Mercury was simply a cover and that the prince consort executed the wrong man.”

“A dangerous move.”

“No more than most of them. The Nighthawks are showing increasing ambivalence toward his rule. I cannot see them tripping all over themselves to hunt down an imaginary revolutionary.”

The queen looked around at the mess at her feet. “Thank you.”

“For?”

“For being the one person I can rely on. For being my hope when I have none.”

Something thickened in Mina’s throat. “Always.”

“That being said, I think…I think I would like to be alone for a little while. Would you send Lady Baltimere in?”

With her special
tea
. “Alexandra, I cannot see the good in it for you—”

“I’m not asking you to.” This time a hint of steel edged the queen’s tone. Their eyes met in the mirror, the queen’s reddened and puffy.

Mina bowed. “As you wish.”

“Just this once,” Alexandra murmured, her gaze losing focus. “I just want to…not feel anything today.”

Mina pressed a kiss to the queen’s hair, her hopes dying a little. The doctors assured her the laudanum wouldn’t hurt the queen—indeed, quite the opposite—but she had seen the way it changed her friend, leaving her but an empty, dreaming shell.

How much of her would be left once the prince consort had callously carved away all of the pieces of her soul?

We
could
run
away. Remember when we used to dream of that?
But she said nothing, for the truth was that they were only pretty lies. The prince consort would never let the queen out of his grasp. They’d be lucky if they made it to Calais.

Unless
I
steal
an
airship.
The bittersweet jest that made her think, of all things, of Barrons.

“Sleep well,” she whispered, stepping away and gathering her skirts. “And remember that our day is coming. Sooner than you think.”

“Mina.” A slightly tremulous voice, followed by a deep breath. “You cannot leave yet.”

She turned, trying not to look at that damning mark on the queen’s cheek. “I should return to the Council.”

“You know what he meant when he told you to take me in hand.” Strength was returning to the queen’s voice. She sat above the perfume battlefield, her skirts sweeping through the shards of glass.