Steampunk Holmes: Legacy of the Nautilus (6 page)

Holmes cast his revolvers aside; in the torchlight I saw the glint of my friend's steel mitts creeping up over his fists, like the scaly skin of a crocodile, with razors protruding between the knuckles, and thus armed he took his next opponent by surprise, even though the latter wielded a Katar, the dreadful Rajput triple-bladed knife, in each hand. The complex movements and lightning-quick thrusts and parries fascinated me, as though I were watching dancers in a complex choreographed display instead of a desperate battle to the death.

But my inattention to my own danger cost me dearly. Just as Holmes' knee crashed hideously into his opponent's solar plexus, a lily-shaped blade shrieked across the room towards me, narrowly missing my face as I jumped backwards and leveled my cannon at the menace. I fired wildly; the blade crashed into my mechanical arm with a jarring screech, and the rope to which the blade was attached coiled itself madly around my arm and person. Further attempts to fire my cannon proved that the mechanism was hopelessly jammed; the blade protruded from my arm like a monstrous appendage. I struggled against the rope, and managed to free my other hand sufficiently to raise the hunting crop against the fourth assailant who leaped towards me in the wake of his roped blade.

Too late, I saw that he wielded a snaking Aara, and before I had a chance to parry his blow, my stick had crashed against the furthest wall, seized from my hand by the coiling belt-like sword. I jerked back as he swung for another blow; I writhed and the rope fell away from around my waist, freeing my mechanical arm. The curved blade still lodged deeply among the splintered metallic factions of my forearm and built-in cannon, but I thanked my good angels that at least my mechanical arm afforded me a shield-like defense against the razor-edged Aara. The sword cracked like a whip against the metal, and I dodged and crouched against the onslaught as again and again my attacker sent the flexible blade flicking noisily about me.

At last I seized my chance, and the Aara coiled itself about my arm. I jerked my arm back, and my assailant stumbled heavily forward, nearly landing on top of me. In an instant I had wrenched the handle of the Aara from him, and we were locked like wrestlers in a deadly grip. His fingers crept dangerously toward my throat; we thrashed about the room, knocking against furniture, sending whatnots and splinters flying. Bullets flying all about us, we crashed at last against a huge bookcase; the books scattered as the shelves tottered and shook, and finally the bookcase lost its balance altogether. And then my assailant and I found ourselves not only fighting against each other, but pushing against the solid mass of wood bearing relentlessly down upon us.

In that decisive instant, I heard my friend call to his sister, and his words sounded as though spoken through clenched teeth.

“Run, Mycroft—run while you can!”

I looked up and caught sight of Mycroft Holmes in the doorway of the adjoining room, glancing impatiently at her pocketwatch. In her other hand she held a smoking pistol, and I suddenly noticed that the floor about her was strewn with slain intruders. Pocketing her watch, she surveyed the disaster zone into which our surroundings had transformed, and called to her brother with a sigh of exasperation, and rolled her eyes.

“Really, brother Sherlock...” is what I believe she said. My opponent was gaining the upper hand, and I found myself gasping for breath even as I tightened my own grip on him and struggled against the crushing weight of the bookcase.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mycroft Holmes fumble with the jabot collar at the nape of her neck; In a flash, a fabulous mask shot up over her face from within a fold of her lapels; from a crevice she extracted a sort of miniature hosepipe, and pulled it over her shoulder. The last thing I clearly saw was that she hid her eyes in the sleeve of her other arm, and suddenly a dense cloud of vile acrid steam shot out of the nozzle of the hose she held.

An inexpressibly horrible sensation assaulted my face as the cloud expanded across the room; my lachrymal and mucous glands felt on fire, and my opponent and I broke violently away from each other, desperately seeking relief. The agonizing sensation increased; I lost all consciousness.

I cannot accurately recount what occurred during the time I lay unconscious under the fallen bookshelf. Miss Holmes apparently resuscitated her brother, who had likewise fallen in a gas-induced faint, and when he had revived sufficiently (so he told me later) he saw my form sprawled underneath the bookcase, and despaired that I had died. I admit I was deeply touched by my friend's kindly concern for my well-being.

However, I knew nothing of these things until the touch of something cold and wet on my face roused me. Holmes' spreading grin filled my blurry vision, as he applied a soaked handkerchief to my still-convulsing features.

Shuffling sounds nearby caught my attention as I returned to my senses; I turned my head slightly, surprised to see a number of efficient-looking people scurrying about the apartment, dusting surfaces, taking notes, and performing the usual official duties. A man in a tall hat nearby was kneeling on the floor, performing the familiar ministrations of a doctor upon my late aggressor. Two hefty constables were supporting a limping figure, covered in bandages, out of the room. Among these sedulous souls, I noticed Mycroft Holmes standing in the doorway giving orders to one of the men. How long I had lain unconscious I cannot tell; despite the pounding ache in my temples I felt the necessity to leave this battleground as quickly as possible.

Holmes perceived my attempts to raise myself, and put a steadying arm about my shoulders, gripping my mechanical arm with his other hand. Aided in this fashion I soon found myself on my feet again, swaying and a little unsteady, but alive and vitally unhurt. I noticed that the curving blade had been extracted from my arm; turning to Holmes (who was still fussing about my person) I thanked him for his kind attentions. Holmes' humorous grin disappeared and, resuming his habitual nonchalant composure, he opened his mouth to reply, but whatever he would have said was cut short by a half-growled clearing of Mycroft Holmes' throat; she, too, apparently felt the urgent need to vacate the premises. We turned to follow her out of the room, Holmes still firmly supporting my arm.

He stopped abruptly just as we poised to descend the staircase.

“One moment, if you please, Watson; I forgot the torch.” He left me leaning against the balustrade, and I turned my gaze back towards the scene of our latest adventure. The blood-light of Holmes' torch on the window-ledge illuminated what now resembled a slaughterhouse; radiant green splotches leered at me from the floor, the walls, the ceiling, the door, and the window, between the shadows cast by the discreet figures documenting the scene. I shuddered in disgust.

“Ghastly, isn't it?” said I to Holmes when he returned with torch in hand.

“Did you think so?” he replied, with a look of angelic innocence spread across his bruised features. “I'm sure the exercise was most refreshing.”

I looked at my friend askance as we limped painfully down the stairs, and I could only shake my head grimly in wonder.

* * *

My cab decanted me not an hour later before our apartments in Baker Street, and I mounted the steps slowly and painfully. I was surprised to see Holmes sitting comfortably by the fire, looking very much recovered from our recent adventures, though the shadows cast on his face by the firelight displayed a mottled disarray of unusual colors, and I noticed that a handkerchief had been clumsily wrapped about one hand in lieu of a proper bandage. Clad in his mouse-colored dressing gown and slippers, with his pipe at its usual angle between his lips, and a small pile of fly-leafs and newspaper cuttings in his lap, he looked the picture of casual comfort and relaxation. He glanced up as I entered, and chuckled at my woebegone appearance.

“My dear Watson,” said he, “there is much to be said for a wind-sweeping drive after heavy physical exertion; I feel positively renewed after my short journey, while you stagger in as though you had not slept in days. Your face is an unwholesome shade, man; may I recommend a stout nightcap? Dear me, we must get that arm of yours looked at; if you leave it on the coffee table I shall try to repair it later. You may need it tomorrow.”

I obediently poured myself a tumbler of whiskey, and sank into my chair opposite Holmes, while he facetiously proposed that fate must be utterly opposed to the idea that I should possess a right arm, for all its attempts to deprive me of that useful member. I declined to appreciate the humor of the thought, however, and when Holmes' chuckles died down, I gave myself up to mentally cataloging my injuries. Presently, however, I roused myself sufficiently to take notice of my friend's doings. He had risen to fetch his Persian slipper, bulging with tobacco, and a great bundle of newspapers, and had nestled once again in his chair, propping his feet up on the edge of the grate. Blue swirls issuing from his favorite pipe encompassed his thin, ascetic face, and disappeared into the shadowy corners of the ceiling beyond the firelight.

“Holmes!” cried I with a reproving frown. “You are not going to stay up all night, are you?”

“It is necessary, Watson,” came the laconic reply. “The case, as you are well aware, hinges on time. If we are sluggish in our attempts to recover the lost technical cards, chances are they shall pass forever out of our reach. We must act quickly, but
what
must our actions be? I have not stopped for a moment's quiet reflection all day, and once or twice in times past when dealing with timely matters, I have found that a silent night's vigil over an ounce or two of shag can do wonders for the reasoning faculties. I strongly advise you, however, to take to your bed as soon as I have shown you the results of our evening's foray. See what my sister has extracted from among Mr. von Oberon's affairs.”

Holmes handed me a few of the papers I had observed him perusing when I had entered.

“Cuttings,” said I, looking the leaves over.

“From the agony column in the
Daily Telegraph
,” continued Holmes, coming forward to stand beside my armchair. “They are a sequence of correspondence between two individuals called 'Pierrot' and 'Sieg'. My guess is that these are the assumed names of von Oberon and his accomplice. They order themselves.”

I read several aloud.

“
'Hoped to hear sooner. Terms agreed to. Acquisition within fortnight. —Sieg.'

“
'Matter presses. Discovery imminent. No more letters at present address. Will confirm by advertisement. —Pierrot.'

“
'Stinking Wharf, care of same steward for PN. —Pierrot.'

“
'Confirm Monday night after nine, residence. Goods in possession by then. Two taps. Leave at once. —Sieg.'”

“A cryptic record, to be sure,” said I.

“Indeed,” replied Holmes, taking up the papers and receding into the comfortable depths of his armchair. “And yet I feel that there is, at the heart of this broth of mysteries, a very simple solution. We have, I believe, most of the threads in our possession. If, by careful tracing and inspection of these threads, we fail to reach the truth, it shall be entirely our fault. And now Watson, off with that derelict arm of yours, and then I shall say to you, good-night.”

I awoke early the next morning to the sound of a low explosion somewhere very nearby, followed by a dreadful trembling of the walls about me, and the distant tinkling of glasses and crockery. Instantly recalled to my senses by this unheralded blast, reminiscent of my days on the battlefields of Afghanistan, I leaped precipitately from my bed, disregarding the stiff soreness of my battered body, and hastened to discover the source of the explosion.

I reeled upon entering our sitting-room. An acrid smell distinctly familiar to my military nose mingled with the dense clouds of tobacco smoke; my stinging eyes searched the fog for any sign of Holmes, for I greatly feared that, in the course of some ghastly chemical experiment, which it was his frequent habit to perform during his leisure moments, he had at last blown himself to bits.

A heady chuckle met my ears, and I located Holmes at last, crouched not far from the shuttered window, apparently inspecting with enormous amusement a great gaping hole in the wall, blackened all about the edges, through which could be faintly seen the gray sky beyond.

“Holmes!” I shouted furiously. “What on earth is going on? What is the meaning of this outrageous mess?”

Holmes held aloft my mechanical arm in a triumphant gesture, but a loud knock pounded outside our door just as he seemed poised to launch into speech. All expression vanished from his countenance and, hastily pushing a chair against the drafty gap in our wall in an attempt to conceal its presence, he went to the door and opened it.

“Why, good morning, Mrs. Hudson. I trust you had a pleasant night? Excellent! Pray, what can I do for you?”

“Mr. Holmes,” said our housekeeper in an agitated voice, her face contorted into a grimace, doubtless at the fouled atmosphere which escaped the open door of our sitting-room, “did you hear that dreadful explosion?”

“I believe I did hear a noise of some sort a few minutes ago,” replied Holmes, vaguely. “I imagined that your furnace below had done itself a mischief.”

“Nothing of the kind, Mr Holmes! I thought the noise came from this apartment. And what is that dreadful smell?”