Devon Monk - Dead Iron

“Oh, come, now.” LeFel smoothly caught her elbow before she could walk off, effectively keeping the gun out of her reach. “Won’t you have a cup of tea with me before you go, Miss Small?”

“I don’t believe—”

“Surely, your parents wouldn’t think poorly of a few moments indulging my humble hospitality. I so rarely find time to socialize with the fine ladies of Hallelujah, what with all the work I must do to see that the rail is completed. We shall sit there”—he pointed at a distance toward the trees and away from the rail—“beneath the canopy my man Mr. Shunt has erected, and oversee this fine morning. Mr. Shunt, fetch our tea.”

Mr. Shunt bowed, and slipped silently up the stairs to the train carriage.

Rose looked after Mr. Shunt, then back at LeFel. He could tell she was sorting her options, looking for a way out. Fear had taken the sun out of her smile and he savored the shadow of her distress.

“You are too generous, Mr. LeFel,” she finally said. “I’d be happy to sit awhile. A cup of tea would be very welcome, thank you.”

“This way, then, my dear.” He stretched his arm, pointing toward the red silk canopy set at the edge of trees not far from his train carriage. Rose kept a tight hold on her horse’s reins, her other hand tucked in the pocket of her dress. Bits of metal and wood jingled quietly at her touch. Perhaps she did not carry a gun.

They made their way across the dirt and grass, her horse following quietly behind her.

“I was unaware you were orphaned,” LeFel began, probing for her pain. “Did the Smalls know your parents?”

“No one knew my parents,” she said steadily, as if she’d been repeating this statement all her life. “It’s assumed my father was likely killed in the war. And my mother couldn’t care for me. Plenty of speculation as to why that was.”

“Yes,” he said softly. “Such a tragic state of things, the war.” They had reached the silk canopy, where two red and gold tapestried chairs sat beside a marble and wrought iron table.

Rose led her horse over to the nearest tree and wrapped the reins over a low branch. LeFel pulled a chair out for her and waited.

Rose walked back to him and paused beside the chair. He could see the fear in her, could see the hard line of her back as she fought not to run. That fear tasted sweeter to him than any rare wine. What was it about this woman that burned so bright within? It was more than the locket. There was something about her. Something Strange.

Sit, my little bird, he thought . Drink at my table so I can better see your delicate bones.

A gunshot rang out. Loud. Close. Two more followed.

LeFel and the men working the rail looked toward the sound, toward the other side of the rail track. The crew boss, a one-eyed Norwegian who was as wide as he was tall and as merciless as LeFel himself, rode the tinder cart, keeping a high watch over the workers and matics. He turned and swung his shotgun toward the thick undergrowth beyond the rail.

The three Madder brothers stumbled out of the brush, rifles in their hands. All three men were so drunk they couldn’t walk a straight line if their feet were tied to it.

A hare was flushed out of the brush in front of them. It dashed to cover while the brothers hollered. One of them took another wild shot at the animal and hit the side of a pony-sized matic hauling a cart of water, the bullet ricocheting like a snapped piano string.

Rose’s horse spooked and reared, tangling bridle and reins in the tree. “I’m sorry, Mr. LeFel,” she said as she hurried away to her horse. “I do think I’d best be heading home. Perhaps I can stay for tea another time?”

She didn’t wait for his answer. Just swung up into the saddle and turned her horse east, away from him, the rail, and the Madder brothers as quickly as she could.

LeFel snarled in irritation. He had barely had a taste of her. Rose Small was a question he wanted answers to. Especially since the Madders seemed to have gone out of their way to show up just as he was sitting down with her. Perhaps, he thought, she was connected to the brothers. Wouldn’t that be interesting?

The brothers had been a thorn in his side for years. He didn’t know what their drunken game was today, but he knew they would not come out here, to the rail, to his place of power, on a whim.

They wanted the Holder and they suspected he had it. But they did not know where he kept it hidden, nor that he had devised a door for it to fit upon. It was particularly satisfying that it was here, right beneath their noses, and yet they could not see it nor do him harm without fear of letting the device loose in the world. For if it was freed, the Strange-worked metals would bring about destruction to the land, and the people who stumbled upon it. Worked within each metal was a curse. Depending upon where the metal lodged, plague would spread, the undead would rise, and insanity would claim the minds of reasonable men. Left alone in the world, the Holder was sure poison, and would bring about bloodshed, blight, and war.

He had his finger on the trigger of a gun that could do more than kill a man—it could demolish this new land. Such a sweet dilemma the Madders found themselves in: unable to call his bluff for fear of destroying the very land and people they protected.

The crew boss yelled at the men to get back to their shovels and irons, then strode over to the Madders and yelled at them to take their guns and leave before he dragged them back to town behind a wagon.

The Madders laughed, patted one another on the back, and seemed to finally get it through their thick, drunken skulls that they were outnumbered.

Mr. Shunt arrived at LeFel’s elbow, a shadow sliding upon shadow, the silver tray and tea balanced on his fingertips.

“Tea, Lord LeFel?” Mr. Shunt asked.

“Yes, Mr. Shunt. Tea.” LeFel settled onto one of the chairs and watched the brothers stumble back into the dirt and brush, singing a tawdry song.

Mr. Shunt poured tea from a kettle made of gold, the aroma of flowers and honey filling the air.

“They can hunt their hare. They can play the fools,” LeFel murmured. He brought the tea to his lips, and glanced back the way Rose Small had gone. “They can snoop, they can pry, but they’ll never find the treasure I have beneath lock and key. This game is still mine. And before two days are out, I will drown them in their own blood.”

Rose eased her horse down out of a trot as soon as she was over the hill and well out of Mr. LeFel’s sight.

The voices whispered to her as they always did. Trees saying they were trees, growing upward and digging deep, settling in for the season’s turn. Plants underfoot calling out a breathy little song of root and wind and long days burning short.

Rose turned them a deaf ear insomuch as she could. She’d always been able to hear the thinking of living things. Over the years, she’d tried to make it stop. Not much seemed to help. The living world had a hundred and a half things it thought needed to be said, though most of it was just the babble of growing and dying.

Wearing the locket helped quiet the ruckus some. So did keeping her hands busy making and devising.

She knew it was crazy to say she could hear things. She’d told her father about it once when she was just about six. He’d beaten her soundly, then kept her on her knees for three and a half days, praying for a saved soul.

Though it pained her, she’d lied to him straight to his face and said all that praying had done the trick, and the voices were gone. He’d told her to tend to her chores that had languished while she was atoning for her sin. And then he’d never smiled at her again.