by Beth Cato
Ingrid envied Fenris. He was comfortable in his skin, his clothes. He could walk down the street by himself right now, after dark, and just be a man out on the town. No worries about catcalls or abuse or lewd invitations. It didn’t seem fair at all, that for a woman to get rights she had to fully assume the role of a man down to his swagger and blasphemy.
“Does it . . . does it look okay?” Ingrid blurted. A flush crept up her neck. Fenris being Fenris, his bedroom contained only a small stand mirror. Ingrid couldn’t see how she looked, but she knew how she felt: strange, guilty. Like a little girl playing dress-up in her mother’s best evening gown, and her backside would be swatted sore when she was caught in the act.
The dress fit as if it had been made for her. The beaded bodice hoisted up her breasts for all the world to see. As much as she hated the tight compression of corsets and girdles, by God, the garment did its job and defied gravity in a way that put an airship engine to shame. The skirt swished and rippled with Western-style pleats.
Fenris cocked his head to one side, lips pursed.
“Sorry. You don’t have to answer.”
“What, you think I’m not qualified to speak on the subject of dresses? I’m familiar with them, the way a dog knows a collar.” Fenris’s voice softened. “You. You can wear a dress.”
Ingrid pressed her hand to the cleavage she’d never displayed before, suddenly shy rather than embarrassed. “It’s not the sort of thing someone like me should wear.”
“Someone like you. You use it like an excuse.”
“What?”
“You’re afraid people will talk when they see you? They will. People will always find something cruel to say, no matter what color your skin is, no matter how you’re dressed.” Fenris shrugged. “That’s because most people are idiots.”
“It’s just—I never simply go to the opera. I didn’t want this dress. I’m a secretary—”
“It was your job to be a secretary. That’s it. Tonight, you’re with Cy, not that warden. You might have been a damn good secretary every other time you’ve attended the opera, but that’s not the issue tonight. A secretary is not what you are.”
She flashed back to what Lee said earlier, about her need to find that out. “Then what do you think I am?”
Fenris looked away, expression wistful for a matter of seconds, then glanced back with a scowl. “Late, if you don’t get in there.” He jerked his head toward the front of the shop.
She walked onward. He didn’t follow.
Cy stood by the office entrance. A white coat spanned his broad shoulders, with two tails draping over his buttocks. Black trousers, pleats perfect, led to shiny black shoes. He turned as she entered. His brown eyes widened behind the small round lenses.
“Oh,” he said.
She stared back at Cy. “Oh.”
Whoever had fitted Cy had done a masterful job. The jacket buttoned perfectly at the front, the taut drapery from the shoulders and armpits indicating fabric of the highest quality. A black silk tie adorned his chest. He had shaved, complete with a slight nick on his chin, and his wavy brown hair looked stiffer due to some sort of pomade.
The shoes, however, were definitely not him. They shone like mirrors. Cy belonged in shoes with soles lovingly worn thin.
But for now, he portrayed what they needed him to portray. He looked the very part of a young businessman. And Ingrid—she wasn’t sure what she was supposed to portray. Certainly some people would recognize her from past visits with Mr. Sakaguchi, but tonight, she was Cy’s companion. Definitely not a secretary.
She already could hear the snide whispers. That she was his mistress. That it was the only way someone like her would be allowed to dress like this. She’d seen other women endure the same treatment. Goodness, even going as Mr. Sakaguchi’s secretary—even with people knowing about him and Mama—there was always gossip.
To have people assume that of her and Cy—was it really such a bad thing?
A throat cleared behind her. “The Bug is moored down the way. We can embark once your show’s done,” Fenris said.
“Good.” Cy fidgeted with his tie.
“I barely had a chance to talk to Lee a bit ago. If he comes back, tell him he needs to rest,” said Ingrid to Fenris. “And you should do the same.”
Lines of exhaustion seemed to highlight the fierceness in Fenris’s eyes. “Here I was, starting another pot of coffee just so I could stay up and wait for you. Or should I be collecting money for bail? No, that’s right. If either of you is caught, you’ll go straight to the military clink.”
“We’ll be careful,” Cy said. He plucked up a black square-crown hat accented with a band of silk.
“Famous last words.” With that, Fenris turned and stalked deeper into the warehouse.
Cy extended an elbow to her. “Shall we, miss?” His face crinkled in a smile.
A rush of heat zipped straight to her chest. Good God, that man’s smile made her want to strip right down again. Unable to speak, she nodded and hooked her arm around his.
San Francisco glowed. At just shy of eight o’clock, the sun had barely dipped beyond the knife’s edge of the Pacific, but Market Street sparkled more than it had in the daylight. Electric signs stacked over each other competed for attention as they peddled German beers and Spreckel’s fine-grain white sugar and lubricators for high-powered kermanite engines. Autocars glimmered under thick lacquers of wax that reflected the riot of color above.
They debarked from the cable car, Cy offering Ingrid a hand as she hopped to the ground. Her slippers’ thin soles allowed her to feel each pebble and crack in the sidewalk.
“So,” said Ingrid, her heart in her throat. “Here we are.” She clutched her handbag in a death grip.
Beautiful women laughed gaily as they strode past in their ermine opera cloaks and diamonds. The men wore hats like Cy’s, brims crisp and lines smart. Despite having been here many times, Ingrid was dizzied by the cacophony outside the Damcyan Theatre. It took her a few seconds of disorientation to realize it wasn’t merely her nerves.
Horses snorted and whinnied. Harnesses jangled. Carriage drivers yelled and more than one whip cracked. “Control your damn horse!” yelled a man from an autocar.
“Ingrid.” Cy grabbed her arm with a gloved hand. “Are you okay?”
“Look at the horses, Cy.” She flinched at the sound of hooves striking a car, followed by more trumpeting horns and profanity. “The geomantic Hidden One of Ireland is said to be a giant kelpie who sometimes tries to buck off her rider—the island.”
“They’re reacting like those fish in the pond earlier, aren’t they?”
“Yes. I wish Mr. Sakaguchi were here. I listened to his tales so many times, but I don’t know them, not like he does. I’m not saying I don’t want to be here with you—”
“I understand.” He squeezed her arm. Another horse balked. She wondered if they saw the blue fog as she did, if they felt the heat of the earth.
She almost smacked herself on the forehead. “Oh, I’m such a fool,” she muttered.
“Why do you say that?”
“I slept the whole day through and I didn’t think to grab any empty kermanite before we left.”
Cy looked troubled. “I’m a fool right along with you. I busied myself with loading the Bug and scarcely thought beyond that.”
She made a mental note to grab the kermanite from Mr. Thornton’s car when they returned to the workshop. The sudden thought of the British warden caused her to bite her lip with worry. If he was a captive like Mr. Sakaguchi, God help him. San Francisco just needed to hold on for a few more hours. Then she’d be gone before she could make things even worse—make San Francisco into another Peking. She looked around herself, envisioning a landscape of bricks and dead bodies, and shuddered. The auxiliary—that disembodied hand—had been bad enough.
Oh, Papa. Alive out there. Tortured. Where would they use him next? At another rebel stronghold in China, or to crush the nascent rebellion
in Manila? The papers printed rumors about the Chinese and Thuggees cooperating to access arms and supplies. Maybe the Unified Pacific would move to dominate India and strike a major blow against Britannia in the process. No one would even know a weapon had been used. It would be God’s will, the whims of the earth.
Then there was Russia and the Ottomans, so powerful, so well established. They seemed content to let the children squabble, but how long would that be the case? Headlines fussed about the Russian settlements in the territory of Baranov a few thousand miles north and how that could be a launching place for an invasion of Canada or the American Northwest. The fault lines along the northern crest of the Pacific Ocean were naturally active, the geomancers few. A well-placed earthquake there could cause a tsunami to level enemies on the other side of the world.
Ingrid had yearned for years to be recognized as a geomancer, but she didn’t want this. She wanted the power, but she didn’t want to be a weapon, a tool.
Another horse reared in its shafts. Wheels cracked against a curb.
Men and woman mobbed the sidewalk in front of the theater. “Finish China! Save our jobs! Finish China . . .” they chanted.
Signs screamed out their messages beneath an electric glow.
YELLOW THREAT IS REAL!
THE ENEMY DOES YOUR LAUNDRY—SHAME ON YOU
GOLD-STAR MOTHERS SAY “DROP HELLFIRE” & SPARE OUR BOYS
Ingrid and Cy ducked into the doorway. She felt the weight of stares on her. Whispers. Scrutiny. Some admiring, some sharp as stilettos. She stood a little straighter and looked at Cy. He looked so handsome, so out of place beside her . . . and yet he glanced at her and smiled. It was the same warm smile he’d offered her when they’d first met on the auxiliary steps. He didn’t question being there with her. He wasn’t ashamed.
Damn it all, she wouldn’t be ashamed either.
Cy showed their tickets at the door. The steward looked from one to the other, a thick eyebrow aloft, and winked at Cy as he motioned them on. Ingrid didn’t flush or scowl. She walked on by.
The noise of protesters was replaced by the more austere, excited buzz of high society.
Outwardly, the Damcyan looked like most any of the towering brick structures in downtown. It was older yet had gracefully aged. The interior, in contrast, was that of an alcazar, a Moorish-style castle: checkerboard marble floors and sandstone walls and inlaid mosaics. The lobby featured triple archways with swirling columns. Palm trees lined the concourse, many growing from pots almost as tall as Ingrid. The ceiling featured myriad gold inlaid stars that made the whole space glimmer. The scent of cloves and smoke drifted in the air.
“The opera in Atlanta is designed to look like a factory.” Cy almost had to yell in her ear to be heard. “You even enter on a conveyor belt.”
“That would be amazing!” she shouted back. Mr. Sakaguchi had told her tales of the place ages ago.
They waded through the mob. A man stepped on her foot and Ingrid froze in alarm, but it was minor enough that the earth didn’t react. Even so, her heart raced and she hurried onward.
As a season ticket holder, she knew where to find their seats at the dead center of the second tier. Mr. Sakaguchi was comfortable in his wealth, but not extravagant enough to buy a private balcony.
“There.” Cy motioned over his right shoulder as he sat. Yearning swept over his features and was promptly replaced by practiced stoicism.
Unfortunately for them, George Augustus ranked among the extravagant. He had a private balcony.
From their vantage point, Ingrid thought all of the white men looked alike in their white suits, with a few black jackets mixed in for variety. A black man served drinks.
“How can we access him?” she asked, her stomach twisting with worry.
“I don’t know. As a boy, I confess, I didn’t pay attention to such details. Miss Ingrid, please face forward or we’ll draw the wrong sort of attention.”
Back to formalities again. She sighed as she smoothed out her skirt.
“However,” he added, “it might be nice if you acted like you enjoyed my company.”
At the renewed softness in his voice, she couldn’t help but smile. “Maybe I’m not a good actress.”
“Or maybe I’m lousy company.” He released a long breath. “I’m nervous to see him, and not simply because of the A-and-A and everything we found yesterday. I’m nervous to see him, period. It’s been a long time.”
She was nervous about this meeting for different reasons. Could George Augustus be trusted to hide his son’s reappearance? If the man was a participant in the Gaia Project, what sort of scruples did he have? Not like the Cordilleran Auxiliary had been innocent. She knew there had been corruption among the wardens and graft to Mayor Butterfield, but the Augustinian Company was the single most powerful American company behind the Unified Pacific. Even Japan, technologically advanced as it was, clambered for their creations. That kind of power did something to a person.
“Pardon me.” A man edged along the aisle toward them. He was middle-aged, a toothpick of a mustache stretching across his upper lip. “You’re the girl who works for the wardens, yes? The Cordilleran?”
Ingrid sat a bit straighter. “Yes, I am. How can I help you, sir?” She would end up playing secretary after all, it seemed.
The man’s attention shifted to Cy, there in Mr. Sakaguchi’s seat. “Such a tragedy about the auxiliary. Terrible news.” Pause. “I had a standing order for several pieces of kermanite, and I was wondering about the status of the stones.”
A hundred dead, and this man fussed over his rocks?
“There’s a lot to sort through right now, Mister . . . ?” Cy’s voice was smooth and gentle.
“Campbell. Talladega Campbell.”
“Well, Mr. Campbell, I assure you, the matter will be addressed very soon. Right now there are matters of grief to attend to, but I assure you, the wardens will take care of you and everyone else.”
When Cy rolled out the southern charm, the man could lull a Porterman to a tower in the thick of a cyclone.
“Why yes, of course. My condolences. I’ll hear from you soon, then?”
“Most assuredly.” Cy smiled as the fellow backed off.
“Baka.” Ingrid growled beneath her breath, talking to herself as much as the departing man, then looked sidelong at Cy. “If Mr. Sakaguchi is out of town, he lends these seats to someone from the auxiliary. Of course, everyone’s going to assume you’re a visiting warden, here to help. No one knows the dire straits the city’s in.”
That old anger flared in her chest. Cy didn’t have to do anything but sit there, in that chair, and because he was a man, he gained the lofty status of a warden. And here she was—the secretary, the ornament, barely worthy of note.
She plastered on a smile for the next three men who approached with similar inquiries. Two were concerned about standing orders. The last heavily hinted that he detected an imminent kermanite crisis affecting the West Coast and that the wardens would financially benefit by diversifying their investments with orichalcum mines up in Baranov. Cy handled each man with such good-natured sincerity that Ingrid almost believed him.
“Hellfire,” he growled at her after the last man left. “Do wardens deal with this every time they step out the door?”
“Yes. Mr. Antonelli and Mr. Kealoha would only discuss kermanite transactions by appointment, for that very reason. Mr. Sakaguchi is more flexible.” It still felt so wrong to speak of the other wardens in the past tense.
A buxom uniformed girl worked her way down the aisle as she took drink orders. Ingrid pursed her lips in thought. “Cy, I could dress as a servant to gain access to the balcony.”
“You’ve been reading dime novels, hmm?”
She blushed. “It’s just an idea—”
“It’s a fine idea, but the problem is that the men in those balconies tend to use their own servants for security’s sake. See the black man up there? That’s Reddy. He’s been with Father since bef
ore I was born. The man’s brilliant. Remembers anything anyone ever said, and as scrappy as a wyvern in a fight. You’d never get past the door.”
She actually recognized Reddy. He’d come to the auxiliary before. He’d been quiet and pleasant, with a shrewd sparkle in his eye. She likely knew many of the most powerful men in the world, not by their names or faces, but by their servants.
The orchestra began to take their places. The mood of the place shifted. She glanced back at the balcony.
“The Cordilleran Auxiliary owns an interest in the mine down south. So does your father. There’s common ground there, literally,” she whispered. “He’s bound to know what happened on Sunday and would be as concerned as anyone, probably more so.”
Cy nodded. “Some eighty percent of large-chunk kermanite orders are for the military. You’re right, we need to take the initiative and play this out.”
The serving girl reached them as the lights dimmed. “Would you like to order a drink?” she asked, her accent French.
“Actually,” Cy said, “I was wondering if you could get a message to George Augustus regarding a business deal. We have reservations afterward at—” He looked to Ingrid.
“Quist’s,” she said.
“Quist’s, and I was hoping he’d be there as well.”
She nodded with a coy smile. “And who should I say is inquiring?”
“The Cordilleran Auxiliary.” He pulled something from his pocket and slipped it into her hand. She slowly drew her fingers across his.
“I will relay that and get back to you by intermission. No drinks now, sir? Madam?” They both shook their heads and she moved on, the curve of her hips brushing Cy’s knees as she passed.
“You’re not holding energy right now, are you?” Cy asked in a very low voice.
“No.”
“Good. The woman’s just trying to earn an extra tip. Try not to throw her into the orchestra pit when she comes back, or at least, let her speak first.” His eyes sparkled with mirth.
“You!” She kicked his foot.
