Smoke and Steam: A Steampunk Anthology

by Karen Garvin

  The prince stared at the ceiling. “Are you a doctor?”

  “No, I am…” Herbert hesitated trying to parse the words to use. Words that wouldn’t invoke punishment. “I am fostered to one, and sometimes help him.”

  “Ah, a fellow Donostian, then.”

  The prince gave a weak smile as Herbert continued to bandage him. The wound did not want to stop bleeding. Herbert needed proper tools and medicines. He did what he could, ignoring the cooling bodies on the floor.

  “Really stinks in here,” the prince muttered.

  “Death does that,” Herbert commented as the train whistled again. Its brakes began to squeal. “Almost there.” Herbert sat back, hand on the bag once more.

  Prince Andrew was as stable as he could make him. If he could get him to Dr. Kipling’s quick enough, there was a chance he wouldn’t bleed to death like the bodies around them. When the train jerked to a halt. Herbert slung the bag on an arm and helped Prince Andrew up.

  “The plans!”

  Prince Andrew stopped, kneeling down to rummage through one of the dead men’s pockets. He grinned as he held up a roll of parchment. Herbert wished the man would hurry up. He wanted to be off the train. Who knew what sort of punishment he’d merit for being here, blood on his clothing. Yet the prince began to unroll the plans. His brows furrowed.

  “They are blank…”

  “Come on,” Herbert helped the prince to stand as the empty parchment rolled from the young man’s fingers. “We need to get you to my Master before you lose too much blood.”

  The man swayed as Herbert supported him. On the back platform, Herbert glanced around. The workers were two cars down. Prince Andrew took the first step, and fell. Twisting in front of the young man, Herbert managed to keep him from landing face first onto the platform. He kept the prince moving, ever towards the further end of the platform. Someone squealed.

  Herbert dared to glance back.

  A pink puff tore towards them. “He’s hurt Papa! He’s Hurt!”

  “Lillian!” A young man caught up to the girl, glaring at Herbert and the prince.

  “But he’s hurt, Edward! Shouldn’t we help those who are hurt?”

  “He has help!” Edward growled, pulling Lillian back to the crowed that was ignoring them.

  “Herbert!” Mrs. Abbot’s voice changed Herbert’s focus. The elderly woman shambled forward, slipping herself under Prince Andrew’s other arm. “What in Iturria happened?”

  “Can’t tell,” Herbert muttered through clenched teeth.

  “Were you robbed?”

  Herbert shook his head and moved the medicine bag into view. He cringed as he noticed a purple splotch on the bottom corner. The iodine bottle had broken, likely other things as well.

  “Oh thank the Magistrates. We need those for the missus. She’s so much worse.”

  They moved off the station platform into the street. Herbert hoped they wouldn’t look in the last car until he was closer to his master’s house.

  “Wait! You there. Foster!”

  Herbert sighed as he and Mrs. Abbot stopped. Mrs. Abbot raised her eyebrows at Herbert as she took most of the prince’s weight. The bowler topped police officer stood behind him.

  “Fleeing the scene?”

  “No sir,” Herbert swallowed, “this man needs a doctor.”

  “And none on the train would do?” the officer gestured to the top hats and tail coats now emerging from the second-class cars.

  “He needs suturing, and his wound needs proper cleaning…”

  “Are you a doctor?”

  “No.” Herbert hung his head.

  “Then…”

  “Now see here!” Mrs. Abbot interrupted, as she maneuvered Prince Andrew to face the officer. “Herbert is a good boy and he’s been with us for two years. I will vouch for him. Dr. Kipling will also vouch, that whatever happened on the train…”

  “Robbery,” Prince Andrew spoke. “A woman, they took plans, blank plans, from her and… and they were going through the luggage. I followed them and there was a man with a gun, he tried…”

  Prince Andrew slumped forward and Herbert quickly took up his weight before Mrs. Abbot fell over.

  “See a robbery, that this poor man stopped.” Mrs. Abbot said as she straightened up. “Now let us get to Dr. Kipling’s. You can question them both tomorrow, if need be.”

  Herbert and Mrs. Abbot slowly turned around and walked away from the stupefied officer. They half dragged, half carried the unconscious man up the switchback streets of Upper Leore. The houses were half carved from the mountain, half built out from it. A confusing maze of ever higher levels looking over the Segurian Plateau.

  Six switch backs later, they moved into the depths of the mountain, to the carved street where Dr. Kipling and the Abbots lived. Oil lamps shed light on the rough-hewn road. Blood dripped from Prince Andrew’s bandage. He felt so heavy that Herbert was afraid it was too late.

  Mr. Abbot answered the door almost as soon as Mrs. Abbot had rung the bell.

  “Birthing room,” Mr. Abbot informed Mrs. Abbot as he took over.

  He and Herbert traversed down the hall to the third room. It was the smallest of the patient rooms and the least stocked. Prince Andrew barely fit on the exam table.

  “He looks important,” Mr. Abbot muttered.

  Herbert nodded, trying to get the supplies ready and maintaining contact with the bag. “He’s Andrew. Andrew of… of…” but the words prince and Donostia would only merit a shock. Speaking of the past reminded fosters of how bitter it was to be in Seguribar. Thus, there were words forbidden by the bracelet.

  “Herbert!” Dr. Kipling’s shirt was covered in blood spatters. “I need my supplies. This is a difficult one.”

  Herbert handed over the bag. “They may not all be,” he glanced at Prince Andrew wondering how to explain things, “intact.”

  Dr. Kipling glanced at the table. “Isaac,” he commanded Mr. Abbot, “release the command to bring me the bag. Herbert,” his brows furrowed, “tend this patient. I will hear the full story later.”

  Dr. Kipling rushed out with the bag as Mr. Abbot grabbed Herbert’s wrist pressing the bracelet into his skin.

  “Ezabatuko,” Mr. Abbot began, “delivered Dr. Kipling, orain egin.”

  The bracelet burned for a second, before it was once more body temperature. If only Herbert could request the “do not” command be removed, but to speak of it would likely inflict its punishment. Instead he focused on Prince Andrew as Mr. Abbot left. The elderly gentleman did not have a stomach for doctor’s work.

  Herbert pulled boiling water from the hearth. Working quickly, he washed his hands, first in the hot water, and then in camphor. He kept the camphor out and within easy reach of the exam table. Prince Andrew groaned.

  “Am I dead?”

  “Not if I can help it,” Herbert responded.

  As he pulled bandages from a drawer and dropped them into the water, he wondered what his mother would think. She would have used a spell to stop the bleeding, then another to knit the wound. Herbert was in Serguirbar because he could not cast even the simplest of spells. Yet here he was performing her job to keep a Prince of Donostia alive.

  Herbert removed the rags wrapped around the prince’s leg, tossing them into the burn bucket. Prince Andrew groaned as Herbert washed the wound in camphor against infection. It continued to leak blood. Herbert cut off the tourniquet he’d made on the train, letting the blood flow for a few seconds before replacing it with a proper one. Pulling the bandages from the boiling water, he hung them to cool as he cleansed the wound more.

  A woman screamed, drowning out the prince’s moans of pain. Herbert continued as if neither mattered. If the wound was not properly cleaned infection would set in. Infection, was the reason many patients died. Dr. Kipling had harped upon this at the conference, though few listened. Using a needle cleaned in hot water and camphor, Herbert stitched the wound closed. He wrapped it in the clean bandages.

  “A
re you sure you are not a doctor?” Prince Andrew’s voice made Herbert look towards his patient.

  “I am a foster,” Herbert stated. “Fosters do not become doctors.” Herbert returned to his bandaging. With a deft twist he tucked in the ends. “Get some rest, the police will be by tomorrow.”

  “This is not all that comfortable.”

  “You have suffered from blood loss, it would be hazardous to move you right now.”

  Prince Andrew groaned. “You sound like Master Karen.”

  Herbert stiffened at his mother’s name, but turned to put away the supplies he hadn’t used. His patient sighed.

  “What about food?”

  “I will see what can be done.” Herbert’s own stomach growled.

  He wanted to find Mr. Abbot, but was pulled into the birthing room to give Mrs. Abbot a break. His own hunger was eclipsed by the need to keep mother and child alive. When it was over at last, Mrs. Abbot came back in. Tired and exhausted, Herbert and Dr. Kipling washed up and ate a bit of cold dinner.

  “The medicines?” Herbert paused, food halfway to his mouth.

  “The iodine will need replacing, along with the laudanum. But most things were spared.” Dr. Kipling set his own fork down. “Care to tell me what happened?” The doctor steepled his fingers, his eyes boring into Herbert’s.

  Herbert swallowed a few times. “Our guest was attacked.” His fork dropped as his hand twitched. “I defended him.”

  Dr. Kipling pursed his lips. “I see, let’s hope that tomorrow our guest will provide more explanation than you or Ella have.”

  *****

  Herbert was set to scrubbing out the medicine bag first thing in the morning. He sat next to Mrs. Abbot in the kitchen. The iodine stain wasn’t responding to the baking soda, despite the copious amounts he’d put in and under the bag to absorb the liquid. Mrs. Abbot was rewriting the labels that had been stained, occasionally verifying a vial’s contents with Herbert.

  The bell rung in the hall above them.

  “Good morning officer,” Mr. Abbot’s voice floated down the half flight stairs. “Please, come this way. Dr. Kipling is expecting you.”

  Footsteps echoed in the hall above, turning left away from them into the doctor’s study. Herbert bent back to his task trying to massage the white powder into the leather to get the purple stain out. He did his best to ignore the muffled voices coming from the office. On occasion, the prince’s voice rose above the others. Then they lapsed into silence.

  “Herbert!” Dr. Kipling’s voice carried through the copper tube that led from his office to the kitchen.

  With great trepidation Herbert stood, leaving the bag. Mrs. Abbot patted his arm as he passed.

  “You’re a good foster, Herbert. You have done no wrong, but saved a man’s life.”

  Saved a man’s life with skills, that as a foster, he should not have. Herbert plodded up the stairs. He knew the police officer would ask him questions that would trigger the do-not-tell command. Surely Dr. Kipling had understood that one had been given. If Herbert could remember the exact phrasing there might be hope of it being removed. He swallowed and stepped into the doctor’s office.

  Prince Andrew sat in one chair, his leg propped upon a second. The bowler hatted police officer was pacing the small room. Dr. Kipling beckoned Herbert in from behind the prince. The moment Herbert was in the room the police officer stopped and faced him.

  “Foster,” he said, his eyes boring into Herbert’s skull, “tell me what you saw happen on that train.” He crossed his arms, not breaking eye contact.

  Herbert breathed deep. “There was one man in railway uniform in the first seat of the last baggage car. Three others jumped on board once the train started moving.” Herbert carefully thought back as his hand twitched. “The one in front joined those in the back and they conferred.”

  The second shock of warning made Herbert’s arm twitch. He saw Dr. Kipling move, but the police officer stopped him with a gesture.

  The officer’s eyes remained on Herbert. “Continue.”

  “I did not hear their conversation, but once it was over all but one left. They wanted no witnesses, so he commanded me to not tell anyone of what happened.”

  The third shock made his whole body twitch.

  “Officer,” Dr. Kipling moved forward again, “let me remove the command.”

  Herbert realized that the doctor had wanted the officer to know a command had been given. Evidence that Herbert had not been responsible for what had happened.

  “An assault was made upon a guest of the Magistrates.” The officer kept Dr. Kipling back. “I will hear his tale with no tampering of the witness. Enough time has passed that the command may be used to judge the truth of his words, memory verses what happened. And the truth is more important than the life of one foster, is it not?”

  Dr. Kipling’s face contorted with annoyance.

  “What?” Prince Andrew exclaimed as he stood, only to collapse back into his chair. “This man,” he gestured at Herbert, “saved my life! And you say his life doesn’t matter?”

  “Your Highness.” The officer sneered at the prince. “This is not Donostia. This is Seguribar. And if you wish to continue living here under your special circumstances, I suggest you let me do my work.”

  Dr. Kipling rested a hand on Prince Andrew’s shoulder as his eyes flicked to Herbert. They apologized for what he knew was going to happen. Herbert turned his attention to the officer as the man swiveled to face him.

  “What else happened?”

  Herbert wished he’d ask pointed questions. Yes or no answers were unlikely to trigger the command. But this way, if Herbert chose to lie, one of the underlying commands, built into the bracelet, would damage him nearly as much as the command to not talk would.

  “I was told to sit in back, while the leader waited mid-car. He had the gun.” Herbert’s arm twitched.

  “The gun?” the officer asked eyebrows raised.

  “I did not observe the others as having guns, only the leader.” The pause had reset the shocks, so Herbert kept going. “There was a commotion at the front of the baggage car.” Herbert’s body flinched as pain emanated from his foster bracelet. He took two breaths, and would have taken more if the police officer hadn’t raised his eyebrows. “I heard someone shout ‘Taste the grapes of my wrath, vile thieves.’ And saw him,” Herbert nodded towards Prince Andrew, “fighting two men…”

  This time Herbert’s body jerked as his bracelet let off more energy. Prince Andrew made a garbled noise. Herbert glanced over to see Dr. Kipling lean in to whisper something to him.

  “The leader,” Herbert continued, “shot each one of his men. And then wounded him,” once more he gestured with a nod to the prince. “I threw the bag I was to deliver to Dr. Kipling to knock the leader’s gun away before he shot him,” Herbert nodded at the prince, “again.”

  Herbert twisted sideways as the pain brought him to his knees. He clutched his body, willing his heart to keep beating, gasping for breath. The pain subsided.

  “And did,” the officer spoke after a moment of silence, “the leader say what he wanted?”

  Herbert swallowed and took a few deep breaths. If enough time passed then the shocks might reset. But the officer was tapping his foot, very close to Herbert’s face. Remaining kneeling, Herbert looked up.

  “To tell him,” he managed a nod to the prince again, “that they don’t take kindly,” Herbert gritted his teeth, determined to finish, “to men who don’t know their place.”

  The pain began in his wrist and leaked, in increments too fast to process, into his whole body. Herbert was on the floor, twitching. Chortled screams wrenched from his throat until his brain blacked out.

  *****

  The police officer rolled his eyes at the limp body on the floor. He tipped his hat to Dr. Kipling and left, stepping over the foster. Prince Andrew blinked. He didn’t understand exactly what was going on, only that Dr. Kipling had now released his shoulder. The prince rubbed
where the doctor’s fingers had dug into him, keeping him from protesting the foster’s treatment. He didn’t even know the young man’s name.

  Dr. Kipling knelt beside the boy as Prince Andrew reached for the crutch he’d been given that morning. He hobbled over. The doctor heaved a sigh, letting the young man’s arm fall back limp.

  “He’s alive, but unconscious.”

  Dr. Kipling scooped up the thin body and carried him out. Prince Andrew followed, his crutch modulating his pace. He waited outside as Dr. Kipling laid the young man on the exam table that had been the prince’s bed.

  Prince Andrew’s mind whirled. Clearly this man cared for … “What’s his name?”

  Dr. Kipling turned from the table, letting the boy’s arm fall. “Herbert.” He left the room and called for the woman, Ella. He gave her instructions to keep an eye on Herbert and to give him food and water when he awoke.

  Herbert. The name sounded vaguely familiar to Prince Andrew, but he could not place it. There was so much more going on than he realized with fosters. Were they really treated as poorly as Brunzian slaves? He was certain that’s not what the foster program had been founded to do. He hobbled after Dr. Kipling, until they were once more in the doctor’s office.

  “I apologize, your highness.” Dr. Kipling began.

  “Apologize?” the prince’s outrage erupted. “You are not the one who should apologize! What was that all about? What was that officer doing? What crazy technological magic was he using? Herbert saved my live and he treated him, treated him, like, like…”

  “I know,” Dr. Kipling held up a hand as Prince Andrew struggled to express his anger. “But those who would change the laws have not the influence to do so.”