Emma Holloway - A Study in Ashes

“I worked there,” Corporal Yelland said, pointing to a particular heap of rubble. He had to raise his voice over the babble of the crowd, so it came out half as a yell. “Fifteen years perched on a stool, tallying debits and credits.”

He was far from the only one whose livelihood had vanished overnight. Tobias wondered where all those workers would go—and how they would survive. “Were you there when it started?”

“I’d gone home for a few minutes to see to my old Da,” Yelland replied. “Saved my life. He’s with my sister now, in her house further west.” He paused. “My home’s a pile of kindling today.”

“Your house and work gone in one night?” Tobias’s chest tightened.

“I was one of the lucky ones. I didn’t lose anyone, not even my cat.” Yelland gave a grim smile. “That means I can keep a level head getting the job done, eh, guv’nor?” And he patted the butt of the rifle propped next to him. It wasn’t one of the many Moore had handed out, but his own, fitted with a clockwork loader and an aetherscope for measuring the direction and velocity of the wind.

“If only everyone’s head was as level as yours,” Tobias replied. “But then, we wouldn’t be here if that were true.”

Tobias stood behind the lever that turned the caterpillar left or right, gripping it with his left hand. The machine was easy enough to steer, the sectioned tail following smoothly after. Still, it required concentration. Too many people were crowded close to make a sudden move. Perhaps that was why Yelland spotted the Blue King’s army first.

“Look, guv’nor!”

He looked, and then blinked. The dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral floated like a meringue over the skyline, but from either side of the precinct came a mob of Blue Boys, azure sashes tied over one shoulder like a sword belt. The sash was their only uniform, the rest of the Blue Boys’ attire left to chance, the only requisite to personify trouble on two legs. But Tobias wasn’t fooled—they might look disorganized, but the Blue King’s forces had always been thorough killers. And their number had to be equal to the rebels gathered around the caterpillar. Damnation!

“How did they get here?” Tobias snapped, his stomach dropping to his knees. The Blue King’s territory was east and south of there. By rights, the Blue Boys should be nipping at their heels, not threatening their flank.

He hadn’t expected an answer, but Yelland gave one anyway as he poked buttons on the weapons panel. “The Blue King negotiated for Blackfriars Bridge, back when he took the Gray King’s head. That gave him guaranteed passage over the river.”

“Bugger.” It was all Tobias had time to say before the rebels and Blue Boys surged toward one another like crashing streams, forcing the caterpillar to a halt. Where once the machine had been at the vanguard of the procession, now it was somewhere in the middle, mired as wave after wave of angry rebels stormed toward their foe. The sheer force of the stampede rocked the caterpillar from side to side, making Tobias grab for the back of his seat.

Suddenly the potential of war became reality—and then it became death. Rifles fired on both sides, the sound weirdly like applause. Men fell, blood, brains, and limbs spraying London’s soil. Outrage skewered Tobias. “Give me a weapon!” he snarled.

Yelland was already there. At the push of a button, the smiling caterpillar’s antennae rose and tilted forward, a scope popping up. Tobias bent to peer through it, the margin where the rebels met the Blue Boys near the steps of St. Paul’s zooming into view.

A bullet whined past his ear, proving the enemies had shooters of their own. Tobias started, alarm turning every nerve ending into a pinprick of heat. He crouched, making himself smaller as Yelland raised his rifle and returned fire. Tobias heard a distant scream.

Releasing a shaky breath, Tobias returned his attention to his scope. Firing and hitting something wouldn’t be a problem. But getting a clean shot at the enemy would be as the two forces began to swirl together. Tobias swore, his fingers shaking as he adjusted the aim of the antenna.

“Never mind, sir,” Yelland said. “You’ll know when to take your shot.”

Tobias was about to protest when a rumble of engines caught his ear. He raised his head from the scope and spotted movement to the west of the church. There were half a dozen machines coming their way, the likes of which Tobias had never seen. They were the size of an old-fashioned coach and powered by steam, with wheels as high as Tobias was tall. In the front were three appendages like fat fingers made of sectioned steel. He stared for a moment, wondering what on earth they were for.

The machines fanned out, forcing their way into the crowd. The three steel fingers began striking the earth in steady succession, one-two-three, one-two-three. Vibrations shook the steel plates beneath Tobias’s feet, sending up a faint rattle from the caterpillar’s gears. At first he wondered if they were just meant to frighten the enemy, but as the pounders moved forward, he saw the destruction in their wake.

“Dear God,” he breathed, momentarily frozen. A red trail followed them like the path of a scythe through wheat. Those steel fingers weren’t meant simply to pound earth. They were meant to crush living flesh. Bile rose, souring Tobias’s mouth and burning his throat.

Horror snapped him back to himself, firing a new sense of purpose. Shoot the operators , he decided, bending once again to the scope. But soon he saw there was no one driving, and a new fear twisted in his gut. Magnus had been the Blue King’s maker. These are driven by sorcery!

Yelland fired, the careful aim of his bullet useless against the machine. The crowds were parting before them now, all too aware of what the pounding steel could do. It was a wise plan, except that it allowed the machines to move all the faster, and they were heading right for the heart of the rebel forces—including the caterpillar. Tobias fired the mounted antenna rifle. A blob of magnetized aether zipped through the air, bursting on the front panel of the nearest machine.

“Good shot, sir,” Yelland said, barely pausing in his campaign to pick off Blue Boys as fast as the clockwork loader would permit. There hadn’t been any more bullets hitting the caterpillar, and Tobias guessed this was the cause. No one wanted to become Yelland’s target.

Tobias pulled the lever to reload the antenna and grunted, considering the results of his last effort. The blast had been hard enough to make the thing rock on its wheels, but the only result was that one of the pounding fingers hung limp. The other two continued to crush without pause. This won’t work . He watched the things, his mind all but rotating the machines in midair, searching for flaws in the design. All machines had them—it was just a matter of seeing what was in front of him. He fired another shot, watching as the machine rocked again. Watching for the center of gravity, which was too high for stability. Come at them at the right height and the right angle, and they’ll topple over like a discarded toy . Tobias felt himself smiling, and he was fairly sure it was an evil grin.

“Moore!” he bellowed, looking around below. The sergeant had been nearby, controlling the troops close to the caterpillar. “Moore!”

“Sir!” came a brisk voice from the crowd below. The baker’s face appeared, sweaty and streaked with dirt and sweat.

Tobias took a deep breath, wondering how best to explain what he wanted. “Do you know how to tip a cow?”

LORD BANCROFT CURLED his lip in distaste, but said nothing as he watched Bucky Penner work. They were in the back of the toy factory, the thin sunlight from the high, narrow windows augmented by an oil lamp suspended over the workbench. He’d spent more time around tools in the last few days than he had in a dozen years, and it brought back black memories. Plus, Bancroft hated the fact that he’d been forced to cooperate with the man who’d done his best to steal Imogen—an escapade that ended in an illness that would probably kill her.