Emma Holloway - A Study in Ashes

“He swore it was you. Who should I believe?”

“Do you trust the word of the man who accused your brother of murder?” With glacial slowness, Bancroft edged his hand toward the night table.

The knife flashed viciously, biting into flesh. Bancroft began to cry out, but the knife was back at his throat, a hand across his mouth and nose, all but cutting off his air. The move had been almost superhuman in its quickness.

“Silence! Just because my grandfather was courteous to you, that does not mean I shall extend the same favor.”

So this was the little flower of a girl he had seen peeking through the doorway? His heart pounded double-time. He could smell a woman’s scent on the slim hand that gripped him like a vise. The unfamiliar mix of the feminine and the deadly coiled his guts with terror. “You sent the note at Duquesne’s?”

“Not I, but one of my kin. After we had sated our wrath with Harriman’s flesh, we had let you slip from our minds until you came knocking on our door, waving your coin. Our thirst for vengeance was suddenly reawakened. You see, our mother trained us—brothers and sisters—for a special kind of work. She also trained us to look after each other.”

The hand left Bancroft’s mouth, and he gasped. He felt blood, hot and sticky, trickling over his hand. “What do you want?”

“Reparations must be made, my lord. I want reparation for my brother’s death. That is the custom of the Kingdom of Ashes, and you have rung the bell at our gates.”

“He was a killer!” Bancroft gritted his teeth, pain and fear heating his temper.

The woman’s voice was implacable. “He was my brother. If it makes you less confused, call him my brother knife, for we were made to be two blades shining on midnight silk.”

“Harriman was your blood money.”

She gave a huff of contempt. “He was not worth a jug of cheap wine. When the time is right, the underground will name its price.”

And suddenly the figure had withdrawn to stand by the lace curtain, so fast she had moved before his eyes could follow. “Do not think to escape. Harriman tried it, and discovered that he had nothing with which to run.”

And the figure slipped through the window, a drop of ink that left no stain. Bancroft fell back to the bed, and then plowed his fist into the pillow, speechless with rage.

One might ask what we know of this Prince Edmond. He is said to be an affable country lad with a ready smile and a fondness for witty conversation. And somewhere between pints of ale, he’s managed to assemble an army of makers without the Steam Council’s notice. We say give the bloke a try—the Empire could use a bit of pluck.

—The London Prattler

London, October 14, 1889

PENNER TOY AND GAMES

1:30 p.m. Monday

“WILL YOU CONTINUE to help Alice? Regardless of what happens?” Tobias asked, worried by his father’s haggard appearance, but worried even more that he would say no. “It’s not her fault who her father is.”

They were once more in the back of Bucky’s factory, but it was largely deserted. Bucky and his most loyal workers were out giving the news to the locals that the prince’s armies were only a day outside the city. Those not already involved in the skirmishes to the north and east of the city were to stand ready to rally. Tobias coughed, his lungs wet and aching.

“Of course.” Bancroft waved a hand. It was a curt, frustrated gesture. “Jeremy is my grandson. I’ll make sure he gets home to his family and that includes his mother.”

And then his father looked at him, his face a hard mask. He knew about the poison, but in typical fashion they’d talked around it far more than about it. “How are you feeling?”

Horrible . The drugs that Dr. Watson had given him might have been helping but it hardly felt like it. The numbness that had begun in his fingers was spreading upward. His entire right hand was clumsy now, but that was only the half of it. He felt like every organ, every joint was preparing to collapse. “It’s not too bad.”

His father held his eyes, acknowledging and perhaps regretting all the missed opportunities for closeness between them. It would have been the perfect moment for a statement of affection, but that bridge had burned too long ago.

Tobias reached out as far as he was able. “I’m glad we’re on the same side in this affair.”

But talking about what passed between father and son was much harder than focusing on a concrete problem. Bancroft nodded and promptly changed the subject. “How are you coming with the devices?”

After the disaster with the malfunctioning aether distillation unit, Tobias had ordered all the Gold King’s war machines equipped with an override on all their major systems. These could be remotely activated and some even reprogrammed from remote, handheld units. “I remember the specifications for almost everything. But I’ve had to rely on Bucky’s workmen to construct them.” His hand had lost all its dexterity. The pain of it went beyond inconvenience—as a maker, his clever fingers had defined him. “I don’t know if they’ll finish in time.”

“They will,” Bancroft said in that tone that had enforced treaties and ended careers. “I’ll make sure it happens.”

“Thank you.” Tobias swallowed, hating the fact that he was too weak to hunt for his son and remained confined in the factory. He’d tried to split his time and strength between searching for Jeremy and working on the devices, but he couldn’t hide his weakness from his wife anymore. “And thank you for helping Alice. The longer we search with no results, the more she’s suffering.”

“Keating is too smart a fox for the obvious. No doubt he has houses even Alice doesn’t know about. Where does he keep his property records?”

“In his main residence. There will be no chance of simply strolling through the door. He may be in hiding with his hostages, but the servants will be there.”

“I’m sure Alice still has a key.” Bancroft gave a wry smile. “She broke into my safe, after all. This should be easy.”

Tobias balked. “I don’t like putting her in danger. God knows what Keating would do if his men caught her snooping.”

“Give the girl a chance. It’s her father and her child. She knows that landscape far better than you or I.”

And yet Tobias could still picture her delicately freckled face white with fear as one of her father’s hulking Yellowbacks thrust an aether rifle in her stomach. His gut went cold. “Don’t tell me how to care for my wife.”

“Why not? Once upon a time you seemed to need the instruction.”

Tobias felt the barb twist, stirring up his own self-recriminations. He rose slowly from his seat. “Must you turn this into one of our futile sniping matches?”

“Damnation, Tobias!” Suddenly his father’s face was gray with grief and fury. He rose, too, and gripped his son’s shoulder, squeezing so hard that despite himself, Tobias flinched. Bancroft wore the look of a drowning man.

A beat passed between them. A suffocating, crippling moment pregnant with defeat. Tobias groped for something to say, but failed. They’d forgotten how to speak anything but angry words to each other.

And then whatever bound them together cracked under the monumental weight of their sorrow and regrets. With a stifled curse, Bancroft turned and left the room, all but breaking into a run.

Where, oh, where has the Gold King gone?

The wretched old villain has left with the dawn

With a scuttle of coal and a lamp full of oil

He’s left our good queen in the darkness to toil

—Drinking song, reprinted in The London Prattler