Emma Holloway - A Study in Ashes

They sat down at the small, square table and waited while the young doctor who worked on site iced and bandaged Tobias’s arm. It hurt somewhere beyond reason, and Tobias gratefully accepted the glass of whisky Keating poured for him. Now that the crisis was over, he felt an odd agitation, as if he wanted a fight. He’d got off lightly, but was still furious at having to take such a risk. And of course it was his right arm, which would hamper him for days.

“How long do you think it will take to get the transport working?” Keating asked as the doctor left.

“It will take a day or two of tinkering and we can test it again.”

“We need to get it into production as soon as possible.” Keating paced the room, circling it like one of those exotic fighting fishes that constantly prowled the confines of its tank.

Tobias tried to watch him but then gave up, since every blink seemed to jostle his throbbing burn. Wearily, he wondered how many of the transports would roll out of Keating’s factories. Tobias had designed half the weapons, but Keating hid the finished product from everyone but a handful of warehouse workers. No one knew just how strong the Gold army might be, and Keating liked it that way. “Is there a time constraint that I should be aware of?” Tobias asked.

“Yes,” Keating said conversationally. “There’s going to be a war. Surely you’ve noticed?”

“You sound like my father.”

Keating’s look was dryly amused. “Lord Bancroft and I see eye to eye on very little, but I think we agree on this point. The natives are restless. Why do you think Reading was on edge at your father’s party?”

Because he was working up his nerve to ask me to play traitor . But mentioning that now would only open the door to a conversation Tobias didn’t have the energy for that day. Not with his arm throbbing and the Gold King already spoiling for a fight. “He was drunk.”

“He’s up to something. Most of the time he knows far better than to draw attention to himself. Or to challenge me—especially when we have agreed to an alliance.”

But the bargain Keating offered was enough to make anyone wary. The Gold King wanted Scarlet’s fleet of dirigibles, but he had little patience for the man himself—and Keating tended to dispose of things he couldn’t use. “What are you going to do about him?”

“I’ll bring him around,” Keating said shortly. “Can you tell me anything new about the abomination?”

That was Keating’s way of referring to the bug. Undoubtedly, there was something about saying “the sanctity of my territory was destroyed by a giant brass mosquito” that irked the Gold King past endurance.

“You don’t think Reading had anything to do with it?” Tobias asked.

Keating’s look was impatient. “Of course I’ve thought it. Everyone has after that disreputable performance at your father’s party. It’s the one reason I think it’s unlikely. He’s not subtle enough to do something that obvious.”

Spoken like a steam baron . “Who else?”

“If I’ve learned anything from Holmes, it’s the value of evidence. What have you found since last night? Anything besides that steering system? You’ve had a week.”

Tobias was tempted to say something unwise. A week wasn’t a long time when it came to the amount of work involved in disassembling a machine of that size and complexity. Not when every bolt had to be examined for clues. But Tobias rose, a little dizzy from the pain, and motioned for Keating to lead the way toward the workroom. “Whoever manufactured this machine used parts from other ships. Finding out where it was made will be a challenge.”

Keating moved to center of the room and gave the ring of worktables an imperious glare. “You told me that already, and it’s not particularly helpful information.”

Tobias crossed to the nearest heap of parts, running one hand over the smooth brass. “I have men researching where the donor ships might have been located. I’m hoping we’ll find a wrecking yard in one city with the right combination of old ships.” Of course, given that air travel was relatively new, he wasn’t even sure such a selection of salvage existed. He’d asked the Merchant Brotherhood of the Air for help, but so far they’d been coy.

Keating swore. “There is nothing? Nothing at all you can provide?”

“I’ve mentioned the steering system.” He pointed to another table, where a steel cube bristled with copper wires. “The logic sorter is interesting. It is different enough that I’m concentrating my efforts there.”

“Good. Spend more time on it.”

“And what about the transport?” Tobias waved his good hand in the direction of the main workshop.

“Keep on it. We need it faster.” The Gold King leaned against one of the tables. “Understand this. The air battle over London stirred public resentment. The Red Jack was a popular icon, the captain something of a romantic hero. The man in the street has a soft spot for rogues.”

Nick . Tobias hadn’t known the man well, but he had saved Imogen. The thought left a guilty, bitter feeling that had Tobias reaching for his whisky glass. If Nick had been a popular hero, he’d paid for that status with his life.

“And that battle was not the only cause of resentment,” Keating continued angrily, crossing back into Tobias’s office long enough to return with his bottle of whisky and a second glass. “Who knew Dr. Magnus’s theater was so popular? The Steam Council was blamed for the fact that his automaton ballet was destroyed, and for the fact that the Whitechapel Murderer was never caught.”

“At least he’s stopped killing,” Tobias offered.

Keating huffed. “None too soon. Rebel sentiment has grown in the last year, and I intend to be ready to defend myself. I defy you to find a member of the Steam Council who is not.”

That was no more than he’d guessed, but Tobias still felt a frisson of unease. He sat silent for a moment, considering. Keating was surely holding something back. “Have you heard anything further about the Baskerville affair?”

Keating gave him a hard look. “Why do you ask?”

“I saw another mention of them in the papers.” He wasn’t sure where the name came from, exactly, although he’d heard there was a small estate somewhere in Devonshire belonging to a Baskerville family. For some reason the word had become a rallying cry for dissidents, especially those of good birth. “You know, the usual blather about how, if only the aristocracy banded together, everything would go back to the good old days.”

“When dukes were dukes and peasants were footstools,” Keating growled, pacing back into Tobias’s line of sight. “Everyone is quick to take what the Steam Council provides, but no one wants to pay the price for what we offer.”

That was a bit like saying nobody appreciated the excitement of being raided by Vikings, but Tobias kept his mouth shut.

“Do you know what the latest ploy is? The latest insult against me?” Keating asked conversationally. “Psychical societies.”

“Palm readers and the like?” Tobias instantly regretted his incredulous tone. But really—what could they do to someone like Jasper Keating? Illusion was always permitted for entertainment purposes—mostly because no one believed those tricks were real. The moment true magic was suspected, there would be an arrest and trial.

“It’s not as innocent as you might think. These societies claim they’re investigating rumors of witchcraft. All based in science, of course. Except they’re bringing in celebrated practitioners to educate them.” Keating finally sat, running a hand over the perfect wave of his white hair. “This came in the mail this morning. If that’s not sedition, I don’t know what is.”