Steam Dogs (8 page)

Caught like a rat in a trap.

With only his greenfire to light the frigid
darkness, Simon railed and swore. He pounded the walls and thick door of his
prison until his hands swelled up. He cursed Benoit and promised revenge
against the evil wizard who killed his father, and stole legacy.

But no one heard his calls; no one answered
his pleas. The walls pressed close, as if to crush the very breath from his
chest. “If I had real fire, no one could ever stop me,” he muttered. His anger
faded, leaving only bitterness and despair.

He had not felt so alone since the death of
his father.
What have I done to deserve
this?
The warm summers of Ryde had long since faded from his memories. Even
Brussels seemed a fond and distant dream, compared to this crypt.

When Master Benoit finally returned, he
brought a jar of icy water, a bit of cake and a few slabs of ham. Simon burst
into tears at the sight. He wolfed down the food--in his ravenous state, he
barely tasted it. He hated how much being locked in the cell terrified him, but
even more he hated the thought that Benoit might leave him alone again.

When he finished eating, the old man sat on
the cot beside him and showed him several thin bits of metal he’d brought. “These
tools will help you get better acquainted with those locks. They’re all you
need to free yourself. Best get to it, lad. You’ve got three more days. If you
haven’t figured out those locks by then, you’re no use to me. I’ll drown you in
the river. Believe me, I will.”

Simon trembled. He had no doubt Benoit would
carry out his promise. In the lantern light, the old man’s gaze was hard as
stone. “Leave me the light, at least,” he protested. He held up his frigid
hands. “It’s so cold; I can barely move my fingers.” The blankets provided only
the barest comfort.

“I’ve seen those green flames of yours.
Besides, you don’t need light to get those irons off, lad.” He tapped his
forehead. “Let your fingers do the thinking. The sooner you show me what you
can do, the sooner you’ll start earning your keep.”

Left alone with nothing to occupy himself,
Simon settled down with the bits of metal the Master had left for him. The old
man was right. He didn’t need light to figure out the locking mechanisms on the
manacles. Once he set his mind to it, the pins and probes were all he needed to
use to manipulate the locking mechanisms. The first cuff fell open without his
knowing how he’d done it. The second took longer, but the last two manacles
fell away in seconds. Simon shouted excitedly as the final cuff snapped open. The
wrist cuffs required him to use both hands and two different picks to tease
open the lock, but he was free.

The thrill of his success warmed him, and he
grinned in the darkness. He couldn’t wait to show the old man.

When Master Benoit arrived, Simon proudly
dangled the open cuffs in front of him. "See? I did it! What do you think
of that?"

Benoit nodded and set the lantern down. "Show
me," he said. "I want to see you do it."

Eager to show off his new skill, Simon showed
how he'd taken a bit of wire and bent one end of it, using the tool to
manipulate the locking mechanism to open. "It was easy," he bragged.

"Well done." Benoit nodded, and then
showed him a lock he’d taken apart to reveal the inner workings. "See,
this piece here is the trigger. When you slide the instrument inside, this is
the piece you're feeling for. And you don't need to bend the tool in order to
get it to open. If you press here--." Master Benoit pulled a piece of thin
silver metal from his pocket and inserted it into the lock. With only a subtle
movement and a soft click, the manacle popped open.

Simon grinned. "Let me try it."

Master Benoit spent the next hour with him,
showing him the finer points of opening the cuffs. Simon peppered him with
questions, which the old man seemed pleased to answer.

But when he stood to leave, Benoit refused to
release him. Instead, he pulled three padlocks from his jacket pocket and
tossed them onto the cot. "Let see how you do with these. Get them open by
breakfast or it's into the river with you, and don’t you think I won’t do
it."

Furious, Simon had no choice but to do as he
was ordered. The door had no lock--the bar on the outside was out of his reach
and far too heavy to lift with the flimsy pieces of wire and tin the Master
allowed him to use.

And so it went. Every day, Master Benoit
brought him more locks. Different locks and different tools; he demanded that
Simon open them with ever increasing speed. With each success, the old man
spent more time with him, explaining the principles of each mechanism and what
kind of tool was best suited for the job.

Although the old man always promised to drown
him in the river if he did not succeed, Simon came to realize that the old man
enjoyed teaching him. Not even his own father had ever spent so much time with
him. And on those increasingly regular occasions when he solved a lock
particularly quickly or smoothly, Benoit’s dark eyes shone bright with pride,
and he’d nod approvingly. Those days, Simon couldn’t help but feel proud of
himself. Gradually, he came to realize that he enjoyed the old man’s company as
well.

With nothing else to occupy his time, Simon
came to enjoy outsmarting the progressively more complicated locks. Proving
himself to Benoit was a game now—each lock a puzzle to be solved. Only rarely
did the Master instruct him on technique; generally on the more complicated
double and triple tumbler locksets.

But there were times when the old man did not
come, and there was no food, and no new puzzles to decipher. Those were the
worst times; when the stone walls closed in on him like an ancient crypt and
not even his greenfire could hold back his fears of being trapped and forgotten
and buried alive. Master Benoit would always apologize, but deep down, Simon
suspected that the old man neglected him whenever he felt Simon was not working
as quickly as he wanted.

Other nights, Simon would wake in a sweat,
tears streaming down his face from dreams of his father lying in the arms of
his killer; whose dark eyes shone with a vile and evil light as crushing guilt
filled him with despair.
Why had this man
killed his father? And what was his father doing dueling with a wizard, anyway?
He never stopped wondering what might have happened if he’d arrived home
sooner.

The memory of those dark eyes both terrified
him and filled him with hatred. His father had been a kind, if stern man, and
Sir Hilary Atters had been well respected on Ryde. His dream of one day
becoming a mage, or even a wizard like his father died that day. Now he was
nothing but a latent—and what use was that to anyone? That stranger had
taken everything from him—his father, his home, his mother’s legacy, and
even his future. No doubt he would die down here alone in this dungeon, and no
one would ever know.

On those terrible nights, when the walls
seemed to close in on him, he would twist the bits of scrap metal and wire
together into small wind-up sculptures. Tinkeries, he called them. The
miniature clockworks kept his mind and hands occupied, and for a short time, eased
his claustrophobia and self-pity. Other nights, he wadded his blanket into a
pillow and cried himself to sleep with longing for the home and family now lost
to him forever.

Even after he’d mastered every lock and safe in
Master Benoit’s considerable collection and Master Benoit had become his
trusted friend and mentor, there were still nights when the walls closed in,
and Simon took up his tinkeries until sleep finally claimed him.

CHAPTER 13

Inside the kitchen of the Steam Dog Tavern, Welsie Foine stood at
the wood stove, slicing a carrot into an iron fry pan where onions were already
browning in a sizzling mixture of lard and bacon grease. Each time a slice of
carrot dropped into the pan, the sound grew louder. She gave the concoction her
full attention as the aroma of caramelized onions and glazed carrots filled the
steamy kitchen.

Behind her, the kitchen door slammed loudly.

She jumped. The knife sliced a deep cut into the pad of her thumb.
The finality of the sound stung even more than the blood welling from a deep
cut in her finger. Alone again, Hamm’s empty plate the only evidence he’d been
sitting at the table. He hadn’t even taken off his coat.

Biting her bloody thumb, she watched through the window as he
slouched back out to where the
Hound of
the Mist
was tethered to the floating dock behind the bar. For months now,
except for meals, her husband of nine years spend every moment out on the
ferry. Hamm claimed he needed to keep an eye on the boat, but the man slept
like an anvil.

He had not shared their bed in months. They hadn’t spoken to each
other in weeks. It wasn’t that he didn’t touch her that bothered her as much as
knowing that her rabbit stew had always been his favorite. She tried to
remember the last time they’d shared a moment. Six weeks ago?
 

Yes. The day before the Cubitt Town council informed them that the
terms for Hamm’s license to run the horse ferry to Greenwich would be changed. A
soon-to-be-built rail station would convey passengers to and from the city, bypassing
the worst of the traffic and congestion in the Island. The new passenger ferry
operation would offer faster, more comfortable, and more frequent service. Hamm
would be allowed to continue his animal transport activities, but would no
longer be allowed to carry human passengers.

The commercial license had already been awarded to a London
transport company.

Hamm had been furious. He was a proud man, and generally regarded
as the best pilot on the Thames. He’d gone before the council fully expecting
to be granted a renewal, only to have his livelihood snatched from him. He refused
to accept the council’s decision, and stubbornly refused to admit that customers
would pay more for faster, cleaner, more comfortable transportation.

The transport of livestock to and from the island had dropped
drastically since the beginning of the distress. Countless generations of
farmers sent their sheep and cattle to the island to fatten them up on the rich
marsh grasses before slaughter. The island’s forage was legendary for its
magickal properties, but times being what they were, people couldn’t afford to
fatten their cattle on the marsh greases anymore, and the island’s killing
field had lain fallow for more than a decade. Without the passenger revenues,
the ferry wasn’t profitable. They would have to sell the
Hound of the Mist.

She reminded him they still had the tavern to run—we can run
it together, she told him. But he wouldn’t hear of it. That was the day he
started sleeping out on the boat. Spending all his time out there. He spent
more time chatting up John Rakes, the knacker from Millwall than speaking to
his own wife. Whatever did they talk about for hours on end?

Careful of her thumb, she lifted the hot pan of browned vegetables
from the table and dumped the contents into the steaming chicken pot.

No cross words exchanged, there had simply been no words at all—then
or since. Hamm ran the ferry. It was his life, and he loved it, and that was
fine. She ran the pub because it kept her busy and that was the way he wanted
it. Hamm didn’t like change. She couldn’t understand why the idea of running
the bar together should be so abhorrent to him. His behavior over the past few
weeks had become more and more petulant—like a child who’d been deprived
of a favorite toy.

He always cared more for that boat than for her.
I never should have married him.

The bell above the pub’s entrance tinkled and stepped out to the
bar. Sure enough, there was Roman Greenslade, right on time. His usual seat at
the bar was taken, but he caught her eye and she pointed him toward the little
table in the corner, before bustling back to the stove to get him his dinner.

She served up a large portion of rabbit stew for the inspector;
picking out the meatiest pieces of rabbit and giving him an extra spoonful of
gravy over yesterday’s leftover mash. Then she grabbed up a knife and fork and
whisked out to the dining room.

 
“There you are, Roman.”
She set the plate in front of him, only then noticing the small brown dog
sitting quietly at his feet beneath the table.

“Well look here,” she exclaimed. “Who’s your new friend?” She
leaned over for a better look. The pup sniffed her fingers.

“Good heavens,” Roman said. “He’s been trailing me all day. Must’ve
followed me right in.”

The pup gave her fingers a lick and stared at her with and intense
expression. A terrier of some sort. She chucked him under the chin. “I’ll bet
he’s hungry.”

Roman offered the dog a bit of meat from his own plate and the dog
took it with an almost reverent delicacy.

“Aw, he’s a nice one. A regular gentleman, too,” she cooed. “I’ll
get you a plate, beastie.”

She scurried back into the kitchen and fished a few bits of meat
from the pot, and plopped a dollop of mash beside it. By the time she returned to
the pub room, Roman had the dog on his lap, and was feeding it from his own
plate.

“Oh, you.” She set the plate down on the floor, and the dog
slipped down and began to eat. She stepped back behind the bar to pull his
pint. “Where did you find him?”

Roman shrugged. “I have no idea. Must be a stray.” He gave her a sharp
look. “Maybe I should ask how are your rabbits are faring?”

She laughed. “Safe enough for now. This little fellow can’t be the
one terrorizing the Mrs. Denby’s sheep. He’s too small and too sweet.” She
turned to face the rest of the gents. “Any of ye know who he belongs to?”

Crowley shook his head. “Not from around here. Maybe from up at
the docks. Could be a ship’s dog.”

“Aye. ‘At’s a Border terrier,” said Mr. Ainsley. “Very tough
customer. I ‘ad one as a kid, don’t ye know. ‘E looks jus’ like me auld dog,
Binks.” Mr. Ainsley leaned forward and wiggled his fingers at the terrier, which
had already cleaned his plate and was licking his whiskers. “’Ello there,
Binksey.”

Roman scratched the dog behind its ears, and the terrier leaned
into his touch. “Well, he’s got to be someone’s pet. He’s no scars at all.” He
ran his hands along the dog’s ribs. “He’s in good shape; not starving. Somebody’s
been feeding him.”

Roman stared at her, the question in his eyes.

“Oh no.” She knew what he was asking. “Hamm doesn’t like dogs. He
won’t hear of it.” She picked up her tray and began to gather up empty glasses
from the tables. She hated to say no to him, but it wouldn’t be the first time.
“You should keep him, Roman. Do you good, I’d say.”

 
“I expect he’ll find
his way back to wherever he came from, now he’s had his supper.”

“And mooch another dinner,” said Mrs. Ainsley, pulling out her
knitting.

Roman rose and fumbled in his pockets for some change. Since his
promotion to inspector a few months ago, he rarely wore his uniform anymore. He’d
told her he’d lost his taste for it, and was glad he didn’t have to wear it
anymore. Claimed the stiff collar scratched at his throat, but he did look so
handsome in it.

The dog seemed already attached to Roman, something she could
certainly understand. I could have waited and married Roman, she thought, and not
for the first time. I was too young when he and Archie went off to war. Still too
young when Hamm asked me to marry him seven years later. But at seventeen, the
life of a ferryman’s wife seemed romantic and exciting.

She returned to the bar with the tray full of empty glasses. Roman
gave her a wave as he held the door open for the little dog and they both
stepped out into the night.

“You’re not leaving already? You’ve barely touched your pint.”

He smiled, as if sad to be leaving as well. “Duty calls. Still a
short-handed down at the station, I’m afraid.”

She wondered what her life would have been like if she
had
married him. They’d live at the new station
house, of course. No water upstairs, not even a bath. No gaslight, either. The
quarters for married officers were squeezed between the rooms for the unmarried
constables and cells for the prisoners. No privacy. Nothing to do all day but
keep their room tidy
. Respectable enough,
but I’d be a batty old thing in no time
.

Although it was two hundred years older, the tavern, had been
renovated to include both indoor plumbing and lights. She liked her regular
customers. Islanders and seasonal fishermen, mostly. That lot and customers
waiting for the ferry. Her cooking wasn’t anything special, but people seemed
to like it well enough, and they liked the pub. She enjoyed the sense of
community. If only Hamm could see it that way.

Gordie Bligh pulled his concertina out and began to play softly. She
recognized the tune of
Married to a
Mermaid
and swallowed the sour taste in her mouth.