Emma Holloway - A Study in Ashes

“These were doing shoveling, sir,” replied the one who had fetched Nick. “Strong ’uns.”

“Nimble?” Rose looked doubtfully at Ambling. “I need someone who can climb. Someone who won’t matter if he falls.”

The guard helpfully pointed to Nick.

“Whatever it is, I’ll do it,” Keeler broke in. “It truly doesn’t matter if I fall.”

But no one paid him any heed. Prisoners were regarded as no more than the insubstantial dead.

“Why is he here?” Rose pointed to Ambling.

“Public drunkard,” the guard replied.

“And him?” Rose pointed at Keeler.

“Second-story man.” That meant he was a thief who specialized in sneaking in my lady’s window to pilfer her jewels.

“And him?” Rose pointed to Nick.

“A vagrant. Probably a thief, too. Found wandering the road with no excuse for being there.”

As usual, Nick held his tongue, since piracy and magic were both guaranteed to see a man swing. And since Dr. Magnus—he of the sorcery and all-black wardrobe—had broken free of their midair death struggle and was now a grease spot south of London, there was no one to give Nick away.

“A second-story man would have the best chance at this,” Rose decided. “But keep the vagrant here as backup. The drunkard can go.”

Ambling was led away, back to the scrap heap. Nick and Keeler stayed put.

Rose steepled his fingers. “I’m prepared to grant clemency to the man who successfully completes this mission.”

Nick and Keeler shared a glance. Nick noticed he didn’t say “freedom,” and “clemency” was too vague for his liking. Still, he listened.

“We require someone to assist in the retrieval of a rather valuable piece of equipment.”

“Where is it?” Keeler asked.

This time Rose acknowledged him. “The Church of St. Margaret and St. Anne.”

Nick had been brought to Manufactory Three, along with a few dozen other prisoners, in the windowless boxcar of a train. He wasn’t sure where in England he was, but the name of the church was vaguely familiar. However, as he’d grown up in a circus that traveled all over the country, that didn’t mean much.

Rose went on. “The equipment was part of a personal flight device that these gentlemen came to demonstrate today. Unfortunately, the church got in the way.”

“It crashed,” said one of the merchant airmen flatly. “There is no point in mincing words. It crashed and what we need is on the steeple. Someone has to go up and get it, but there are too many obstructions on the roof to reach it safely from the air.”

“How heavy is the equipment?” Nick asked. That would make a difference.

The airman gave a quick, approving nod. “Barely a pound. It’s part of the pilot’s harness. It will have to be cut free.”

“Captain, we can’t give a prisoner a knife,” Rose snapped.

The airman snorted. “We will unless we want him to chew through the strapping.”

“Is the pilot alive?” Keeler wanted to know.

“That depends on what happened with the propeller,” the captain replied. “We can’t tell. The roofline is too irregular.”

Rose chopped the air with one hand. “The equipment is the priority. The Scarlet King does not wish his maker’s work to fall into enemy hands. There is a war on, you know.”

Nick and Keeler exchanged a startled glance. It was the first either of them had heard of it. What side are these men on? Nick wondered. The Scarlet King’s, obviously, but what did that mean? That was the difficulty with politics in the Empire—there were too many choices for an obvious answer. And that led to an equally interesting question.

Who is the enemy?

THE WINDOWS UPSTAIRS GAVE A VIEW OF THE DISTANT church. The airmen argued for Nick’s presence as they all trooped up the stairs to watch Keeler’s progress. Accordingly, Nick climbed the steps, the heavy chains around wrist and ankle clanking loudly in the stairwell. Guards marched before and behind, muttering that there was more valuable work to do. Nevertheless, Rose agreed with the airmen. If Keeler failed, the next man up would need to know where the first had gone wrong. It was good logic, but it would have been better if Nick had not lost his spyglass in the wreck of the Red Jack . It was hard to see much at this distance beyond the building itself.

The Church of St. Margaret and St. Anne was an unusual design—at least as far as Nick had seen. The roof was in two parts. The front had the usual tall steeple, and the back of the building was a long rectangle with a steep peak and the usual buttresses, gargoyles, and other medieval fancy. But someone along the way had liked the first steeple so much they’d added more points. They weren’t true spires, but were tall, slender points needling into the clouds. One sat at each corner of the rectangle and halfway down the long side, creating a cluster of obstacles that meant the roof was impossible to access from the air.

A Steamer eventually appeared near the church and men piled out, Keeler still in chains. The clutch of men disappeared inside the building, presumably to use the stairs to access the roof. Twenty minutes later, Keeler was a small black dot inching up the side of a steeple toward a patch of something Nick couldn’t make out. He squinted, irritated by the fact that he couldn’t quite see what Keeler was doing. Plus, the tickle of a rifle muzzle caressing his ear was more than tiresome. Backbreaking labor was preferable to the constant tease of a quick death. But then again, no one was asking Nick’s opinion.

The room where they stood wasn’t much to look at—empty except for oak cabinets containing the paper records for Manufactory Three. There was enough room to stand by the row of windows, the workings of the plant strewn several stories below. Nick had never seen this view of the place and studied the layout carefully, keeping his features a blank. His pulse quickened as he noticed the slash of turned earth on the west side, where a new building was going up. The fence was down there, but extra watchtowers had been raised. Was that an opportunity for escape?

And then he heard a collective intake of breath. His gaze slid back to the dot on the rooftop, his own chest wrenching tight. The dot was moving downward with excruciating slowness. Nick shifted slightly, wanting a better angle, and felt the rifle jab him in the neck.

“Stand still,” the guard ordered.

Nick clenched his teeth, swatting his own anger aside. Keeler had got himself in trouble trying to reach something that had wedged between the slope of the roof and the base of the southeast tower. Keeler was approaching the join of roof and tower from below, but the angle was too steep and he kept sliding down. After every attempt, he would dangle precariously over the sheer drop to the paving stones below, kicking until he found the strength to pull himself up. Keeler was sick and couldn’t keep that up for long. Ignoring the guard, Nick leaned forward, as if a few inches would make a difference to his ability to see.

“He should have gone down from the ridge,” Nick muttered. “He could have used a rope.” But then Keeler was a second-story man, used to nipping up drainpipes and trellises to pry open house windows. Dark Mother protect him!

“You’ve some experience with heights?” the airman standing near him asked. They were all subdued, and Nick guessed why. That was their friend who had crashed on the church roof. “Not everyone can stand being near a high balcony, to say nothing of being up there with the birds.”

Nick’s vision fuzzed with memory, blocking Keeler from sight. Nick had grown up as part of Ploughman’s Paramount Circus, ropewalking almost as soon as he learned to run. “I have some. Not as much as you, I’m sure.” That was a lie, but Nick preferred to be careful.