The Transference Engine (27 page)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“W
HATEVER YOU WISH
to call me, my dear,” Rigby replied, still holding the crystal aloft.

“You must be on a mission from your primary employer,” I said, trying desperately to figure out if I should trust him or not. The archbishop's name would gain him command of a military patrol. But if he truly worked for Archbishop Howley, why did he need the guise of the withered hand?

He threw back his head and laughed. “As if I would stoop to truly working for anyone but myself.” Finally, he turned to face me, his visage bland.

I could determine nothing from his expression or body language.

A snapping twig deeper in the forest sent the aim of the menacing rifles toward the sound.

Silently I cursed inept Ish. Inside his laboratory with books, and arcane equipment and mathematical formulas scrawled on every viable surface he was a genius. Out in the real world he was more helpless than the youngest of my guttersnipe army of spies.

“Sorry I can't stick around to help, Mags. I have an appointment that can't wait.” Rigby palmed the crystal and marched up the road to where a black lumpy shadow resolved itself into a black wicker basket straining at the ropes of a huge, black, hot air balloon.

I hadn't noticed it. I hadn't even looked for it!

I should have known better. But, like most people, I focused on the action on the ground, not the hovering presence above.

Instead of uselessly kicking myself, I dashed after the chameleon. He heard my footsteps and increased his pace, diving into the basket as Sir Andrew Fitzandrew stood up from the depths of the basket and loosed the ropes. He worked hard at keeping his face turned away, never meeting my gaze.

I knew him too well.

I leaped to follow. My fingernails scraped the side of the basket as it rose quickly. The brittle reeds embedded sharp splinters deep into the quick. I squelched a squeak of pain. I'd endured worse and would again to prevent that crystal from being used in a light-cannon, no matter the target.

Ish screamed.

The basket rose higher, beyond my reach.

I had to help Ish, a babe in the woods with no defenses.

I picked myself off the road where the basket had dumped me and ran toward Ish. The patrol of six enlisted men surrounded my poor friend, their red coats appearing dull and dirty in this light. Ish cowered on the ground, raising one hand above him to ward off another blow. The sergeant raised his rifle to slam the butt into Ish's head.

Without thinking, I drew my pistol and a throwing star, shot both guards and tackled the sergeant. My clawlike fingers yanked off his poorly sewn-on stripes. His weapon fired as we landed heavily on the ground.

“Get out of here!” I called to Ish as I slammed my fist into the jaw of the false soldier.

Three down, three to go. I jumped up and whirled to face my next opponent.

They grabbed their comrades and dragged them off, deeper into the woods to the south of us. Not true soldiers. Probably hired bullies outfitted with used and hastily dyed clothing.

Ish staggered upward, clutching his injured arm and his ribs. A dirty boot print marred his side beneath his uninjured arm. Leaf litter and twigs stuck out of his tangled hair. A bruise reddened and darkened on his left cheek.

His grimace turned to sneering outrage and he lashed out with his own foot into the sergeant's ribs. The man on the ground groaned and rolled, flailing in his stupor to prevent another attack.

I inserted myself between Ish and his target.

“Don't stop me Magdala. Don't keep me from giving this dog the punishment he deserves.” He tried to sidle around me.

“No. Ish, think. Do what you do best, think, damn you. He's down, damaged, and deserted. What more can you do to him?”

“Kill him.” He turned fever bright eyes on me.

Then I noticed the blood trickling from his right temple and the way his pupils dilated. He swayed and nearly dropped to his knees.

I caught him as best I could and steered him back toward the meadow. “We need to get you to a doctor,” I said quietly.

“That man . . .” He waved vaguely toward the road.

“Too far to follow now. And the sun is headed toward setting. We'll catch him. Not today.”

“He's got Jeremy, you know,” Ish said. He stumbled against me, barely able to lift and aim his feet.

“I guessed as much. Now we need to get you back to the balloon. Jimmy will take you to a doctor.”

In the background, I noted the sounds of reins slapping against horseflesh and the creak of wheels turning on weakened axles. Stamata made her own escape. Without the crystal and laboratory supplies, she could not do much to restore her lost love. She presented no threat to us. For now.

The bruises blooming on Ish's face and the flow of blood welling up from his vulnerable temple did. I checked his arm. He'd knocked the bandage loose and it was bleeding freely again. He was in trouble, despite the new bandages I applied once we were aloft.

“There,” Jimmy said, pointing to a cluster of thatched cottages about twenty miles south of Windsor. The only word he'd said since we tumbled Ish into the basket and lifted off from the field with the watching horses.

Ish groaned but didn't open his eyes. He sat, slumped against a corner of the basket, head lolling.

I straddled him, one foot on either side of his knees. We just did not have room for him to sprawl his legs and leave space for Jimmy to move about as he needed, adjusting the flame and tilting the ailerons.

“Is there a doctor in that village?” I asked, more to hear the sound of my own voice than to confirm what I guessed.

Jimmy nodded.

“I'm sorry they damaged your balloon.” I offered my friend the only apology I could, along with a few pennies for repairs.

He shrugged, but only with his shoulders, not his full body, and he didn't look me in the eye.

“I don't know what else to say, Jimmy. We've helped each other many times over the years. I thank you for taking us to find Madame Stamata.”

“Sorry we failed,” he grunted and dropped us lower. The coins disappeared into a pocket. “This is for fuel. The crown he gave me earlier will cover the repairs.” He gestured with his shoulder toward Ish in silent thanks for the money.

“I'll figure out something to stop that madman.”

Jimmy grunted again, still angry about his precious balloon, but we were friends again. Then he busied himself with getting us back on the ground, aiming for a clear stretch of road just west of the cottages. He'd not willingly damage ripening grain in the fields on either side of that narrow dirt track.

Workers in those fields spotted us, paused in their weeding, and pointed at the strange contraption. This close to London, about thirty miles south by southwest, they must have seen steam devices traveling through the area. But they were some distance from the main road. I'd seen many such villages, isolated by choice as much as distance.

The smoke from the coal fires of the cities did not spread this far. Yet. It was only a matter of time.

We landed with a bump and a drag, precisely on target. The light breeze from the north threatened to dump us into a field. The curious workers leaped to steady the basket as Jimmy deflated the balloon enough to keep us in place, but not enough to ground him for any length of time. I watched the gray silk sag, much as my own tension did.

“Please, is there a doctor about?” I asked the villagers as they peered into the basket and spotted Ish, still dripping blood from head and arm. He managed to open his eyes a bit. They looked as glassy as they were bloodshot.

“Aye, Missus.” One man tugged on his forelock, unable to take his eyes off the fascinating horror of so much blood.

Four other men rushed to the nearest fence and unhinged the gate. They ran back with the makeshift litter much as they'd do for a rider thrown in a foxhunt or a man accidentally shot while bird hunting.

Jimmy stamped his feet impatiently while we hoisted Ish carefully out of the basket and onto the flat boards. The men arranged his legs and feet carefully; they'd done this often. I sincerely hoped that thoughtless horsemen waited until after harvest to careen madly through the fields in pursuit of their nasty prey.

Once Ish was settled, I slung my legs over the rim and jumped clear. Seconds later Jimmy cranked up the burner. A whoosh of hot air brought refreshed rigidity to the silk. As I balanced against the wicker, it rocked and lifted. I stumbled away and nearly kicked the gate where Ish lay breathing shallowly.

Jimmy departed without a wave of farewell.

The local men each took a corner of the gate and trotted toward the jumble of rooflines in the near distance. I followed as best I could. Men started moving closer to us from the far fields. The women and merchants of the village moved into the street, more curious than wary. The jabber of their questions, and speculations, grated on my ears. All I wanted was for Ish to open his eyes and give me one of his endearing smiles.

We came to an easy halt before a cottage door that overlooked the town square—a meadow more than a village common, bigger than most with signs that sheep had recently grazed there before moving them to summer pasture closer to the river.

Alerted by the noise of conversation the door in front of us opened with a hard jerk at the same time a youngish priest made haste to join us from the tiny stone church on the opposite side of the green. He carried a Bible under one arm, his stole draped over the other and a small black box in his hands—the kind men of the cloth used to hold already blessed Eucharist wafers, wine, and holy oil. Emergency tools for any serious injury or illness.

The man of middling years who stood in the doorway assessed the situation with keen eyes and a straightening of his slouched posture. His frock coat had seen better days, but once was of fine cloth and tailoring. The same for his boots and trousers. I guessed he'd once thrived in a city and moved here to finish out his years in relative peace. And boredom. Ish presented him with an interesting challenge.

With sharp gestures, the physician waved us all in. He and I both assisted the four farmers in transferring Ish from the gate to a long metal table, akin to the ones in Stamata's laboratory. There the resemblance ended. Tools and equipment, as well as books, filled the built-in bookcases. Though scrupulously clean, not a bit of whitewash alarmed my sense of smell or my eyes.

When the farmers left with their gate and nods of respect to the doctor, Ish opened his eyes fully for the first time. He flapped his hand for me to move closer. I clasped his fingers tightly.

“Magdala,” he whispered.

The doctor looked at me sharply while he felt his patient's scalp gently for evidence of his wounds and clucked his tongue at my clumsy bandages. “Magdala? The bastard daughter of a Gypsy king?” he asked in cultured tones with hints of Edinburgh behind the lilt. The Scottish school of medicine was the finest in the western world. That affirmed my guess of earlier prosperity and significant education. I felt easier about leaving Ish in his care.

“Yes. One and the same,” I admitted.

“Mags. You must go, pursue the crystal. I need that crystal,” Ish said, as if we hadn't interrupted the flow of his thought. “Leave me. Now. I will return to Oxford when I can.”

Gently I kissed his brow. “Good-bye, Dr. Ishwardas Chaturvedi. You have been a great help and a good friend.”

With that, I left—slapping all the shillings I had with me into the doctor's hand for his care of Ish and for his silence.

As I trudged out into the street, I wiped away a single tear, knowing that while Ish and I would always be friends, he was not cut out for my adventurous existence, and I couldn't allow his hesitations to hold me back. Some things I had to do, no matter how dangerous.