The Mammoth Book of Steampunk (22 page)

Jessaline turned to stare at her and found that she could not, for her eyes had filled with tears.

“Wait.” Norbert caught his breath as understanding dawned. “Go to Haiti? Are you mad? I forbid—”

“You had better come too, brother,” Eugenie said, turning to him, and Jessaline was struck breathless once more by the cool determination in her eyes. “The police will take their time about it, but they’ll come eventually, and a white man lies dead in our house. It doesn’t really matter whether you shot him or not; you know full well what they’ll decide.”

And Norbert stiffened, for he did indeed know – probably better than Eugenie, Jessaline suspected – what his fate would be.

Eugenie turned to Jessaline. “He
can
come, can’t he?” By which Jessaline knew it was a condition, not an option.

“Of course he can,” she said at once. “I wouldn’t leave a dog to these people’s justice. But it will not be the life you’re used to, either of you. Are you certain?”

Eugenie smiled, and before Jessaline realized what was imminent, she had been pulled rather roughly into another kiss. Eugenie had been eating penuche again, she realized dimly, and then for a long perfect moment she thought of nothing but pecans and sweetness.

When it was done, Eugenie searched Jessaline’s face and then smiled in satisfaction. “Perhaps we should go, Jessaline,” she said gently.

“Ah. Yes. We should, yes.” Jessaline fought to compose herself; she glanced at Norbert and took a deep breath. “Fetch us a hansom cab while you still can, Monsieur Rillieux, and we’ll go down to the docks and take the next dirigible southbound.”

The daze cleared from Norbert’s eyes as well; he nodded mutely and trotted off.

In the silence that fell, Eugenie turned to Jessaline.

“Marriage,” she said, “and a house together. I believe you mentioned that?”

“Er,” said Jessaline, blinking. “Well, yes, I suppose, but I rather thought that first we would—”

“Good,” Eugenie replied, “because I’m not fond of you keeping up this dangerous line of work. My inventions should certainly earn enough for the both of us, don’t you think?”

“Um,” said Jessaline.

“Yes. So there’s no reason for you to work when I can keep you in comfort for the rest of our days.” Taking Jessaline’s hands, she stepped closer, her eyes going soft again. “And I am so very much looking forward to those days, Jessaline.”

“Yes,” said Jessaline, who had been wondering just which of her many sins had earned her this mad fortune. But as Eugenie’s warm breast pressed against hers, and the thick perfume of the magnolia trees wafted around them, and some clockwork contraption within the workshop ticked in time with her heart … Jessaline stopped worrying. And she wondered why she had ever bothered with plans and papers and gadgetry, because it was clear she had just stolen the greatest prize of all.

Attend – in the darkest streets of Unden there lay a coal-filled fen known as Moloch Alley, a place filled with men who possessed souls with the consistency of smoke, stained and dirty, willing to drift with the whims of the wind and disappear, poof, when the storm winds whistled between the looming factories. A cold place, and a mean one, the air thick with black smoke and men cursed with black lungs and wicked coughs and few hopes for the future. And into this alley walked a clockwork goat, trip-trapping, tick-tocking, marching stiff-legged and determined down the soot-stained cobblestones. It walked into the darkness until it arrived at the copper door of the Smokestack Magi’s home, a portal laid flush with the bellowing red-brick chimney of a smelting house, as though one could walk through it and into the roaring furnace beyond.

There were stories, even then, that spoke of the door and its owner. The door was never hot, not even warm, no matter how much smoke billowed forth from the tip of the smokestack, and there were sigils carved into its surface with a delicate hand. The stories said that the only visitors to whom the Magi’s door opened were exotic creatures and mysteries. There had been a hippogriff once, or so it was said, not three years prior – a sleek beast with grey-black feathers and sharp teeth used for rending flesh. Before that there had been a marsh troll, and there were stories, older still, about a mermaid, scaled and beautiful, who had been wheeled along the alley’s cobblestones in a great tank of brackish water by her small flotilla of slaves, who had knocked and gained admittance but failed to emerge after that.

And now there was the clockwork goat, a device no more than three feet tall with ticking parts of silver. Not even a living thing, not quite, but it looked close enough and there are stories about goats, even here, far from the fireside tales of their childhood, and thus no one molested the small creature, allowing it to approach the Magi’s door without harm when any normal man would fear for his life in the dark shadows of Moloch Alley.

The goat marched up to the door and knocked with one hoof, rapping it against the burnished copper, before settling on its haunches in a flurry of sharp clicks and grinding gears. For three days the goat waited there, sitting on the doorstep while Moloch Alley filled with smoke and dust and ashes, and every day, on the last bell of the thirteenth hour, the clockwork goat would rise and knock and settle on its haunches once more.

It was not until the fourth day that the copper door swung open, magically, before the sharp rat-a-tat of the goat’s knock. The goat stood, watching the darkness, until the Magi appeared through the smoke and studied his visitor. He was a short man, black-robed, with eyes like polished coal, and he watched the goat with suspicion on his face. “So,” he said, stroking his beard of glowing embers. “You’re one of Bartholomew’s pieces. He gets desperate, it seems, in his dotage.”

The clockwork goat nodded and its jaw dropped open, and it spoke in a tinny voice that hummed like a plucked string on a viola. “My master sends greetings, Lord Magi of the Smokestack. He wishes peace between you, and I have come as he bid me as an offer of goodwill.”

The Smokestack Magi studied the goat through hooded eyelids. “Bartholomew may be ageing,” he said, “but he remains ever wily. What assurances do I have that it is safe to entertain your presence?”

“You have entertained giants, and ghosts, and unicorns. What need have you to fear a simple construct like me? My master wishes peace, to reach an accord between you. I come bearing his knowledge, his research, and his friendship.”

“There are stories about a horse,” the Magi said, “which was offered in friendship and caused the downfall of an empire.”

“That there are,” said the clockwork goat. “I am not a horse.”

“You are not,” replied the Smokestack Magi, “but this matter requires contemplation. I will retire for a day to ponder the mystery you represent. Knock again tomorrow, and I will consider your request again.”

And so the Magi left and the clockwork goat waited another day, drawing curious eyes from the men of Moloch Alley who crept closer and closer as shadows grew long. The goat did not move, and at the thirteenth hour of the fifth day the goat knocked once more and waited until the Smokestack Magi returned, stepping through his copper doorway with flames roaring at his heels. He smoked his pipe and stood over the goat, puffing gently as he regarded it with a frown and quizzical eyes.

“I have researched,” he said, “and considered, and pondered the mysteries of your creation. A goat? Why that? What purpose is there in this form when all the beasts and birds of nature are at Bartholomew’s disposal? Why a goat, of all things? If you are possessed of all his knowledge, tell me this so that I may consider your offer in the spirit with which it is made.”

“There are stories,” the goat said, “of goats serving as a sacrifice, carrying the sins of a tribe into the desert. There are stories of goats providing succor to gods, providing them with abundant nourishment to ensure they grew up strong. Perhaps my master intended both, perhaps he did not. Perhaps I am both, a symbol of past sins and succor for your future friendship. Perhaps I am not.”

“Perhaps?” asked the Smokestack Magi. He puffed upon his pipe, sending black smoke into the air.

“I know all that my master knew, but I do not think with his thoughts. I can tell you what he has learned, but not what he plans to do with such knowledge.”

“A good answer, but not a comforting one,” the Magi said. “This requires contemplation. Knock again tomorrow, when I have pondered your offer further.”

And another day wore on and the clockwork goat waited patiently, his ticking filling the silent seconds between the moans and groans of the factories. And again the men of Moloch Alley grew closer, close enough to study the mechanical beast and see their grubby faces in the sheen of the goat’s silver carapace. They whispered to one another, afraid, falling back when dawn grew close, and the clockwork goat waited and knocked on the door, and when the Magi returned once more the denizens of the alley were hidden in the shadows.

“I remain conflicted,” the Magi said. “For your offer is tempting, too tempting by half. I have warred with Bartholomew for a century now, competing with him for the favour of the Crown and the merchants. I have been driven by that contest, that need to best him in the eyes of others and become the greatest magi in the land. I know he once felt as I do, that he was driven to his success by our rivalry. So I ask you, good goat, why he wishes to make peace between the two of us now?”

“Perhaps he sees greater discoveries made by combining your intellects, with two thoughts achieving what one mind cannot,” the clockwork goat said. “Perhaps he wishes to study in peace, for its own sake, rather than focusing his work on the necessity of building favor with men and women of influence. Perhaps he concedes defeat in your contest, and sends me as a concession of your superior brilliance.”

“You do not know?” the Magi said. “You cannot tell me why he sent you?”

“I know all that he knew, but I do not know his thoughts.”

“Then again I am conflicted, and you must await another day for my answer.”

Then the Smokestack Magi disappeared in a swirl of smoke, slamming his door behind him with a thump like an engine’s piston. Once again the clockwork goat waited, silent on the doorstep, but this time the denizens of Moloch Alley crept forth, peering and prodding the silver chassis of the construct.

“If you know all that a magi knows, then you have the secret of their magic,” one of the denizens said. He was a tall man, reedy, with eyes that looked like they’d been stolen from a ferret and shined up until they gleamed with cunning and guile. “Would you tell us, if we asked it? Could you tell me a great magi’s secrets?”

“I know all that my master knew, all the formulas, the theories and the science,” the goat said. “I know all my master knew, but I could not tell you his thoughts.”

“Then tell us,” the ferret-eyed man said, for he had intelligence enough to seize on an opportunity when it was presented to him. “We would soak up what you know, and use it to improve our lot.”

And so the clockwork goat recited the formulas and the theories and the science, night after night as he stood there waiting on the Magi’s steps. Every day the denizens of the alley would scatter when the Smokestack Magi emerged to ask his questions, holding their breath while they waited for the Magi’s decision to wait a day longer. Every night the denizens of Moloch Alley learned more, until they had mastered many secrets and became magi themselves. They learned the magic of the cog, and of steam and coal. They learned the power of the furnace and spread it through the city like a plague of rats, driven by the dangerous combination of avarice and knowledge that has marked all the great magi.

Unden became a place of wonders, a place where science and magic prospered, though with so many magi spread across the boroughs the Smokestack Magi found it hard to maintain favor amongst the nobles and merchants of the court. He grew poorer and weaker, and the copper door tarnished as he lacked the power to keep it whole. Moloch Alley remained a place frequented by ne’er-do-wells, but now they were men who had heard tales of the clockwork goat, canny brigands and greedy gamblers who wished to know all the goat knew. They leaned on the doorstep of the Smokestack Magi’s home, but he had not the sense to open his door and see where his competition came from.

And so things continued, and so things went, until one day, three years after the goat had first arrived, the Smokestack Magi opened the door and invited it inside. “It is decided,” the Magi said. “I accept your master’s offer. You will teach me all you know, and I shall use it to best this upstart magi in my city.”

And so the clockwork goat told him, and so the Smokestack Magi learned, though the knowledge availed him little with so many others who now possessed it. He recognized the plans and the inventions that the other magi used, the sciences and the experiments with which they impressed the Crown. “It was you!” he cried, preparing to strike the goat. “You have brought this blight of learned men to my fair city. It was you who taught them the mysteries that have robbed me of my wealth.”

“It was,” the goat said. “For that is how I was created. I will answer those who ask and tell them all I know. If you had but allowed me in, those who lived in the alley would not have interrogated me for my secrets.”

Then the Smokestack Magi did strike the goat several times, denting the silver chassis and breaking the delicate gears. He destroyed the creature and melted the parts, scattering the cooling ingots across the four corners of the globe. But this destruction did nothing to improve the Magi’s standing at the court, and his door corroded and warped until it could not open, and even now there are stories about the ghost of Moloch Alley, a creature of soot and sorrow that seeks to absorb all a man knows with a touch of its grubby claw.

But that, perhaps, is a story best kept for another time.

“So, what will you do once you have the world in your hands?”

“Stop it.”