by Lynn Viehl
I found a square of tin and a large rag to drape over the bucket, which I stowed to one side. By the time I returned to the bench, Docket was peeling away the sodden, stained paper from some coiled wires. “It was rigged?”
He nodded. “To explode. The tea saved you from decorating the walls of your office with your insides.” Gingerly he opened the box’s sagging top flap and bent closer. “Well, what have we here?” He used the tongs to extract a dripping, twitching device no bigger than my fist. “Looks to be a rat after all.”
The tiny animech had been painstakingly crafted to resemble the real rodent, from the hair-thin wires sprouting from its riveted snout to the narrow length of leather crimped over tiny rollers.
I knew animech was all the rage in Rumsen now, but this was a bit too realistic—I could almost feel the bite of the razor blades fashioned into its two long teeth. “Why would you want to make a bomb look like a rat?”
“You’re a female, love.” Docket made my gender sound like an incurable disease. “I’ll guess the villain thought you’d open the package, scream, drop it, and leap onto a chair while it went scurrying about.”
I’d be more likely to trap it under my coal bucket and send for the vermage. “It would have done that without winding?”
“Was wound before it was parceled. Had to, to trigger the boomer. These wires”—he pointed to the outside of the box—“are likely attached to a coil inside wound about the roller shaft. Soon as you opened it they’d trigger the coil to unwind and turn the rollers. Would make it scuttle about like the real thing for a minute or two. And then . . .” His cheeks puffed out as he made an exploding sound.
Docket was a marvel with mech, and what he said made complete sense. It also made me suspicious. “You can guess all that simply by looking at it?”
“I might have seen something like this during the war. Bad times, no one ever questions seeing a rat.” He put down the animech on its back, pressed a rivet by its ear, and a hinged belly plate popped open. “This is where they put the charge.” He frowned. “Hand me those pluckers in the tray, Kit. Yes, the smallest ones.”
I passed him the tweezers and watched him extract a hunk of something pink, torn and definitely not mech. Even with the mask on the smell suddenly became unbearable. “Bloody hell. That’s what stinks. What did it eat, a dead rat?”
“Looks to be a gland of some sort.” Apparently immune to the stench, Docket examined it from all sides. “Not rat, not this big. Not skunk, either. Could be stag.”
“Whatever it is, get rid of it,” I begged.
He took an empty jar from the rack above the bench, dropped the chunk of flesh inside, and sealed it. “Aye, that was the source of the stench. You can take off the mask now.”
I didn’t want to breathe again until I was at least a mile away, but I’d run out of air and had to remove the mask. When I did I could still smell a trace of the noxious odor, but a moment later it seemed to disappear completely. “They needn’t have used a bomb. That reek would have done me in.”
“Might have made you faint, you being a female and all, but it were tucked inside a capsule. Wouldn’t have smelled anything until after you’ve been blown to smithereens.” Docket scratched the three days of beard stubbling his jaw. “You’d have smelled right pungent, though. Or whatever was left of you.”
“Perhaps they wished to spoil the funeral as well as the current arrangement of my parts.” I handed him the mask. “I should take it over to Rumsen Main and make a report.”
“Best I keep it here. Chief Inspector Doyle won’t thank you for smelling up New Scotland Yard.” He studied the animech again. “This didn’t come cheap, neither. Workmanship’s too bloody fine for a toy. To get this detail, whoever put it together had to hand-work the brass while it was heated nearly to the melting point.”
I knew next to nothing about metal workers. “Who would have that level of skill?”
“Someone who works with metals regular, like me,” he admitted. “A watchmaker or a jeweler might, too; they can do this sort of wee mech. But they likely wouldn’t know how to sort out the charge or the fuse.”
“A mage?” I watched Docket shake his head. “Anyone else?”
“I’d put my coin on a blast master.” He saw my expression and grimaced. “That’s what they called the torpedo makers during the Insurrection. Those lads could make most anything into a bomb—stones, flowers, even shoes.”
“I’ve had no dealings with the militia.” I prodded the rat with a finger. “I’m not a hostile or a rebel. I pay my taxes and my rent on time.”
“This is the sort of thing they do to get rid of turncoats.” Docket was regarding the rat so he didn’t see my expression change. “Give us a day to take this apart, love, see what else there is to it. Might find something useful for the Yard.”
I wasn’t going anywhere near Rumsen Main now. “I owe you one, mate.”
Docket winked. “Let me keep the rat’s works after, and we’ll call it even.”
• • •
I spent the remainder of the day visiting two new clients and solving their dilemmas. The ghost supposedly haunting a cobbler’s shop turned out to be a cat sneaking in at night to escape the cold; I found the felonious feline snoozing in a bin of laces. My proof of his crimes, bits of leather from the shoes he’d scratched and chewed, still lay caught in his claws. The fishmonger who’d hired me to dispel the curse on his dockside stand wasn’t too pleased to learn that the ridiculously high prices being demanded by his avaricious new wife, not evil magic, were chasing away his best customers. She denied everything and blamed me for trying to swindle her husband and ruin her marriage with my false accusations.
Relocating the cat and mediating a truce between the unhappy couple took more time than I expected, and I had to rush to return to the office in time to meet Dredmore’s driver, who sat waiting beside his master’s finest coach and four, all perfectly matched in the most depressing shade of gray.
“I don’t suppose I could reschedule this for tomorrow.” I stepped aside as Connell, silent and impassive as always, opened the door to the coach. “No, of course not.”
I climbed in and sat down, leaning back against the fine leather cushions as Connell climbed up and started off. Once the horses’ hooves were making sufficient noise I pulled down the window shades and closed my eyes before I spoke the only incantation I ever used.
“Harry, we need to talk.”
CHAPTER TWO
My breath whitened the air as the temperature of the interior abruptly plummeted. The shadows before me moved in strange patterns, lightening and solidifying as a man’s form took shape: a thinning mane of silver hair, a smart suit that had been fashionable some twenty years past, and two bright, dark eyes peering out from a narrow, clever old man’s face.
The face lied, for he was not a man, but a spirit, and an immortal Aramanthan at that.
The first time the elderly specter had materialized he’d told me that his name was Harry White, but that alias (like Harry Houdini and Ehrich Weiss) was just another of the many he’d used throughout time to conceal his true name: Merlin. Among other things, he could possess the bodies of mortals, which was how he’d sired my mother. While I had no intentions of calling Harry “Grandda,” to keep safe footing I’d made him my business partner. When taking on an associate, I reckoned, you could do much worse than the most powerful magician of all time.
At present, Harry looked about with visible disapproval. “You had to summon me in his coach? What has the bastard done now, kidnapped you again?”
Harry hated Dredmore, but then, Dredmore hated him. What I hated was not knowing the cause of all the hostility and drama between them. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I voluntarily accepted Lord Dredmore’s kind invitation to meet with one of his clients. She wishes to hire me.”
“Sounds so legitimate, too, doesn’t it? I’ll remind you of this kind invitation when he locks you up in his great tomb of a mansion to s
erve as his personal harem girl.” Harry looked quite satisfied. “Again.”
“I didn’t call on you to discuss Lucien.” I sat back and rubbed my eyes. “Someone tried to kill me this morning by sending an animech with a bomb inside to my office.”
“Must not have been a very good one.” Harry reached across and poked my arm. “You’re still among the living.”
“Pure daft luck, I assure you. My friend Docket said the device might have been made by a soldier. Which is odd, considering I’ve done nothing to annoy the militia. Unlike some occupants of this vehicle.” I folded my hands in my lap and gave him an expectant look.
Harry hunched his shoulders. “I told you, Charm, I never actually spied for the Crown. I used the body of one of their spies to travel to Toriana to look after your mother and you. That’s all.”
I leaned forward. “The point is, that bomb was sent to the office. Our office, Harry. Your name is on the door now, too.”
“That was your idea, not mine.” He sniffed. “You shouldn’t have used my true name anyway. Now all my enemies know we’re partners.” He frowned. “Did you find that cat at the cobbler’s I told you about last night?”
“Yes. I found the cat.” Getting my grandfather to focus on the problem at hand was like trying to herd a dozen rabbits in an open field scattered with carrots. “What have you been doing that you haven’t told me?”
“Oh, this and that.” He avoided my gaze by examining the state of his cuffs. “I spend most of my time in the Netherside, as well you know. It would be much more convenient if you were to find a body for me to occupy.”
“Let’s be clear on something, old man,” I said. “I am your granddaughter, your business partner, and, I suspect, the only friend you have left on the planet. What I will never be is your personal body snatcher.”
“Calm yourself, gel.” He sighed. “I’m not some demon spirit come straight from Hades to destroy the world. I was only thinking of the convenience.”
While Harry could take on solid form for short periods, as he did now with me, the only way he could get about in the world was to possess a living person and turn him into his personal carri. Fearing Harry would do that and much worse to me, my parents had imprisoned him in a nightstone pendant I’d worn most of my life. Since no magic worked anywhere near my person, Harry had been unable to work a spell to free himself, and had remained trapped for decades like a genie in a bottle.
My parents had been wrong about his intentions, but I couldn’t blame them. If Harry stayed in the body for longer than a day and a night, the possession became permanent and lasted until the body died . . . or someone killed it.
And there was one possible explanation for my vastly unpleasant delivery.
“Mother of God.” I braced my forehead against my hand. “Someone thinks you’ve possessed me.”
“I’ll look into it,” Harry said. As the horses slowed, his body began turning transparent. “You’ve arrived at the evil sod’s lair. Have a care, gel. If you’re not home by midnight I’ll be quite annoyed—and I still remember how to turn an ass into a toad.” He disappeared.
I glanced out the window and saw the soaring heights of Morehaven, the enormous cliff-side mansion Dredmore called home. “Fabulous.”
• • •
Connell escorted me to the main entry, where Dredmore’s butler stood waiting with a lantern. “Good evening, miss. The master is waiting for you in the drawing room.”
I followed the butler through the foyer and down a long hall scented with beeswax candles and adorned with some of Dredmore’s extensive art collection. It was so silent and gloomy I had to say something. “How have you been, Winslow? Plotting with your master to overthrow any governments lately?”
“Not this week, miss.” The servant didn’t miss a step, although his expression grew puzzled. “Forgive me, miss, but how could you know my name? Have we met before tonight?”
Actually we had, not that he or anyone else in the house would remember. Our meeting, which had taken place during Dredmore’s abduction and seduction of me, had been erased when I’d been thrown back in time. “You know, I can’t recall,” I lied.
He stopped before a massive oak panel, knocking once before sliding it to one side. “Miss Kittredge, milord.”
I walked in to the beast’s lair, which immediately lived up to Dredmore’s reputation for the fantastic. Magical-looking relics occupied stands and cases scattered about the room’s many polished tables. Glittering light from a seven-tiered crystal chandelier illuminated the brass-studded dark leather furnishings and vases of hothouse roses. Everything was spotless, expensive, and mysterious—exactly the sort of atmosphere in which Dredmore thrived.
The master himself stood near a roaring fire in a gray-stone hearth, his arm braced against the mantel. It surprised me to see he had put on a white tie in my honor, almost as much as if I’d found him in his shirtsleeves swilling ale.
“Thank you, Winslow.” Dredmore inspected me. “Bring our guest tea and sandwiches, if you would.”
“Yes, milord.” The butler withdrew and shut me in.
I occupied myself by placing my reticule on a table and then taking a turn of the room. “Did your client beg off at the last minute, or was it all a ruse to get me here?”
“The lady will be arriving shortly.” He moved to an armchair and gestured for me to take a matching seat across from his. “Did you enjoy the tea this morning?”
“You know, I did, thank you. It turned out to be a genuine lifesaver.” I disdained the facing seat and wandered over to an orrery fashioned of nested astrolab turntables with the suspended planets made of polished spell stone spheres. “Someone sent an animech rat containing a bomb to the office. It didn’t go off because I poured your tea over the parcel instead of opening it. Don’t glower like that, I’m fine.”
A muscle twitched along his jaw. “Do you still have the mech?”
“Docket’s having a look,” I said. “Lucien, have you told anyone about my grandfather?”
“Who would believe me?”
I watched as the mech’s rotagears turned and the tiny planets floated round the goldstone sun. “I know precisely how persuasive you can be. You could stand in the market square, announce the sky was the earth, and everyone within earshot would stand on their heads.” I’d personally experienced what he called his mind power to charm the spirit-born, and combined with his reputation as a deathmage, it wasn’t much of an exaggeration.
He appeared on the other side of the orrery. “You believe the parcel bomb was meant for Harry.”
“Since I’ve done nothing to— Bloody hell.” I glared at him. “You’re still having me watched?”
“You are one of the most powerful mortal spell breakers ever born, Charmian. Of course I’m having you watched. Come here.” He took my arm and guided me over to the armchair, making me sit. “The surveillance is only for your protection,” he added in a gentler tone. “The Reapers have learned that a spirit-born mortal defeated their warlord Zarath, and in so doing prevented the conquest of Toriana. Thanks to your adjustments to the timeline, however, that is all they know. I cannot allow them to discover who you are, or that it was your doing.”
I wanted to tell him I could look after myself, but he was right. “If the Reapers didn’t send the bomb for me, then it must have been meant for Harry.”
“I’ll make some inquiries. I should know something by tomorrow.” Dredmore looked up as Winslow carried in a large silver tray laden with a steaming porcelain pot, matching cups, and enough dainty sandwiches to feed a small fussy army. “Now eat before you wilt from hunger.”
I eyed the pot. “I really can’t drink anything green. Even on Saint Patrick’s Day.”
“This blend is called Golden Afternoon, miss,” Winslow said as he poured and handed me a cup. “Indian amber leaf, touch of honey. Very smooth.”
I took a cautious sip as he served his master. “So it is, Winslow. Quite delightful. Be warned, I mig
ht try to nick a tin or two before I leave.”
“If you can get past Cook, miss, it’s in the dry-goods pantry. Third shelf on the left.” He inclined his head as he departed.
Dredmore added a slice of lemon to his tea. “I never knew Winslow to have a sense of humor.”
“We all of us have hidden depths, Lucien.” I selected a round of brioche filled with shaved ham and cranberry relish.
“I heard you talking to Winslow in the corridor,” he said. “How did you know his name?”
More dangerous territory, for like Winslow, Dredmore had no memory of the night I’d spent at Morehaven before I’d mangled time. “As I told your man, I can’t recollect. Perhaps you mentioned it in passing, or I met him once in town. Or it could be that I’m having you watched.”
“I never speak of my servants to anyone. Your memory is flawless, and any meaningful surveillance of me is quite beyond your financial means.” He regarded me over the rim of his teacup. “And Winslow never leaves the estate.”
“You should let the staff out now and then, Lucien,” I said mildly. “I’m sure most of them will come back.”
“You came to Morehaven before today.” He set down his cup and gave me his full attention. “I know when. The question is, why?”
He could be annoyingly direct. “I cannot tell you what never happened.”
“But you remember it.” He stood and came over to me, cupping my chin in his hand and making me look up at him. “You may subvert the past as often as you like, my sweet, but you cannot escape your fate.”
“My fate my foot. Leave off, Lucien. All this to-do is giving me indigestion.” I pushed his hand away and took a bite of my sandwich.
He brushed a crumb from my lips. “Ah, but it’s my fate, too, Charmian. The portents have made that unwaveringly clear.”
Before I could tell him what I thought of his taking magical peeks into the future Winslow returned. “Your guest has arrived, milord.”
Dredmore dropped his hand. “Show the lady to the Orchid Room, and inform her that Miss Kittredge will attend to her momentarily.”
