Metal and Magic: The Steampunk Adventures of Hanover and Singh

by Chris Paton

  Luise’s fingers trembled with the buttons of her jacket until it was tight. Cinching the strap of the satchel, she stopped a party of navvies, shovels on their shoulders. The men stared at Luise.

  “I need a shovel,” Luise took a step closer to the man at the front of the party. “Please, I need one of your shovels.”

  “You can’t ‘ave one ‘o these,” the man shook his head.

  “Then I am sorry,” Luise clasped her hands to her cheeks. She looked past the men as Hari and Blaidd closed on one another. “Come on, Luise Hanover,” she stamped her foot in the mud. Dropping her hands to her sides, she looked at the man. “I will just have to take it from you.”

  “You’ll do what?”

  Luise pulled back her foot and kicked the man between the legs. As he crumpled to the floor, Luise caught the shovel and took off down the street. The work party huddled around the man and helped him to his feet.

  “She has a serious need for a shovel, does that young lady,” the man’s friend helped him to his feet. “Though I’m not so sure she is ever going to give it back.” The men watched as Luise slipped twice in the mud as she ran toward Hari.

  Chapter 13

  The Greater London Derby, Horse Guards Road

  London, England

  May, 1851

  The mechanics loaded the wood pellet injectors and slotted them into the improved globus tank behind the driver’s seat of Romney’s Wallendorf steamracer. Romney fiddled with the strap of the goggles between her fingers. She looked up as a man rapped his knuckle on the red bonnet of her racer.

  “Dieter,” Romney leaped out of the driving seat and threw herself into the mechanic’s arms.

  “Ja, ja, Romney. It is good to see you too.”

  “What are you doing here?” Romney let Dieter go, but for the cuff of his right sleeve that she gripped between trembling fingers.

  “Well, af-fter I got your racer out of the potter’s shop,” Dieter glanced at his sleeve, “I had nothing better to do than f-fix up your old racer.” He nodded in the direction of a trailer on the outskirts of the racing camp. “It is not as good as this, but it runs f-fast and is plenty good on the corners. I even expanded the tank.”

  “You put a globus tank on my old racer?”

  “No, not a globus tank. Something a little smaller. But,” he winked, “I did attach an injector like these ones. Only mine will burn anything combustible, not just tiny pellets.”

  “I’d like to see it.” Romney let go of Dieter’s sleeve. Her shoulders sagged. “I have to stay here, Dieter. You understand?”

  “Herr Bremen has you racing for Wallendorf. Ja, I understand.” Dieter paused. “Is that him? Is that Herr Bremen?”

  Romney turned to look in the direction Dieter indicated with a slight nod. Bremen strode toward them, the blackened cane swinging in his grip and fresh bandages applied to his cheek.

  “Yes,” Romney fiddled with the goggle strap.

  “Has he had an accident? He looks terrible.” Dieter fell silent as Bremen approached.

  “Ah, Dieter. I wondered if you would show up. Are you here to help push Romney to the starting line?”

  “Herr Bremen,” Dieter dipped his head. “If-f Romney would allow it. Ja, I would like to push her to the start line.”

  “Good,” Bremen smiled. “It will bring her luck.” Taking a step back from the racer, Bremen watched as the mechanics filled the boiler with water and stoked the furnace. A jet of steam geysered out of the exhaust as a mechanic reached into the driver’s cockpit and tested the throttle. “Excellent,” Bremen rested his bandaged hand on the pommel of his cane. “I look forward to the start of the race. There’s just one more thing.” He took a step closer to Romney and pointed the tip of his cane at Hannah von Ense.

  Bremen’s assistant carried the impediment machine to the rear of the racer and closed it inside a cylinder freshly bolted behind the globus tank. Hannah patted the cylinder, smiled at Romney and walked back to Bremen’s caravan.

  “Remember the plan, Fräulein.”

  “How can I forget?” Romney smoothed her hand over the bandage on her arm.

  “Your friend, Mr. Robshaw, has pole position as per the agreement.” Bremen led Romney away from the racer. Stopping by the side of a large wooden crate, he pulled a map from his jacket pocket and spread it on the crate lid. “Each lap is one point four miles. There will be five laps – seven miles in total. On lap three,” Bremen pinched Romney’s chin between his finger and thumb and turned her head toward him, “you will experience engine problems and drop back from the front. Robshaw knows this,” he let go of Romney’s chin, “but it will be a surprise to the other six racers. The Italian, Elena Lanteri, she will not understand. I hear she is most competitive and is more interested in beating you than winning the actual race. But, these are small details. You will drop back and take the north-easterly road, following the Thames before heading out of London.” Bremen folded the map. “By the time Robshaw wins the race you will be well on your way to the rendezvous with the dirigible in Victoria Park.” Bremen slipped the map inside Romney’s jacket. “A fitting place to put an end to this endeavour, a park named after the monarch of our enemy. It is a pity she turned her back on the Hanovers.”

  “Is that what this is about?” Romney walked beside Bremen back to the racer.

  “Of course not, the name means nothing. Rather it won’t as soon as we get that out of London,” he pointed at the cylinder containing the impediment machine. “That little machine will turn the tide of the coming war in our favour.” Bremen placed his hand on Romney’s cheek. “Enjoy the race, Romney. I will be watching.” Romney leaned against the bonnet of the racer and watched Bremen leave.

  “Did he talk your through the route?” Dieter rapped on the bonnet. “Romney?”

  “What?” Romney pulled the goggles onto her head. “It’s a circuit. There’s nothing to it.”

  “Even in the rain?” Dieter pointed up at the clouds filling the sky.

  “It makes no difference to me.” Romney climbed in behind the steering wheel and closed her eyes as Dieter and the mechanics pushed her to the starting line.

  ҉

  Luise slid to a stop in the mud as the first drops of rain began to fall from the clouds above. Holding the shovel in two hands, Luise fought to control the rapid rise and fall of her chest and the pumping of her heart. Two shovel lengths in front of Luise, Hari and Blaidd feinted and thrust blades, fists and feet in an exchange of glancing blows and superficial cuts. Blaidd landed the first significant punch to Hari’s ribs as the Indian mystic realised Luise was within striking distance of the Welsh wolf.

  “Hari?” Luise took a step forward as Hari fell to one knee in the mud.

  “Miss Luise,” Hari wheezed. “I told you to leave.” Hari pushed himself to his feet and leaped backward as Blaidd danced another combination of knife thrusts and punches within inches of Hari’s face.

  “Come to watch have you, eh?” Blaidd stopped to sneer at Luise as Hari regained his balance. “You and I can play when I am done with your Indian friend.” Blaidd spun the butterfly knives in his hands. Gripping the knives between thumb and forefinger, he spread his palms toward Hari. Blaidd’s cheeks glowed pale blue as he traced the spirals on his palms with his little fingers. “Recognise these, eh?”

  “Djinn marks?” Hari’s shoulders sank. “That explains a lot of things.”

  “Well,” Blaidd closed his fingers around the knife handles. “They are not complete. I can’t conjure a djinni if that makes you feel any better.” Sidestepping around Hari, the Welshman began to move faster and faster. “But I can channel the powers of the djinn for a limited time.” Hari twisted from side to side, turning on the spot as Blaidd spun around him.

  “You must run, Miss Luise,” Hari shouted from within the blur of movement entrapping him.

  “No, Hari,” Luise took a step forward. Shovel raised, she paused at the light touch of a hand upon her arm. She turned and looked do
wn at a thin tanned face, wrinkled like a walnut. The man smiled up at her.

  “He needs help,” the man pointed at Hari. “Again.” Holding the bokken like a lance, Yuu stepped forward and thrust it into Blaidd’s path. The tiny oriental locked his knees, bracing himself as Blaidd crashed upon Yuu’s wooden sword and catapulted through the window of a building facing onto the street. Yuu staggered backward, raised his bokken and pushed his little finger through the split running the length of the sword. Turning the handle of the bokken in his grip, Yuu slipped it under his arm and tucked his hands inside his belt. He bowed as Hari approached him.

  “Yuu,” Hari placed his hands together in a Namaste. “Truly, you have wonderful timing.” Yuu lifted his head and smiled, the grey light of morning reflecting in his eyes.

  “How did you...” Luise lowered the shovel.

  Yuu shrugged. He looked up at the sky and pointed at Shahin circling above them.

  Hari laughed. “There are few desert hawks in the city of London, and Yuu has good eyesight. How long have you been following us, Yuu?”

  “Many days,” Yuu sighed.

  “Hari Singh.” Cradling his right arm with his left, Blaidd stumbled to his feet.

  “Go.” Yuu drew his broken sword and pointed up the street toward St James’s Park. “Quickly now.”

  “Thank you.” Luise looked at Yuu. She let the shovel fall to the mud.

  “We must run, Miss Luise.” Hari sheathed the kukri, stepped around Yuu, and took Luise by the hand. He nodded briefly at Yuu as the tiny oriental stalked toward Blaidd. Hari tugged Luise back up the street toward the abandoned steam carriage.

  “The race starts at nine o’clock, Hari. How do you plan on getting us there in time?”

  “Look,” Hari pointed at the gang of workers stoking the steam carriage with sacks of coal they dragged from the back of a horse-drawn cart.

  “Hari,” Luise stalled, “that is the man I kicked.”

  “The one sitting behind the steering wheel?”

  “Yes.”

  Hari squeezed Luise’s hand and led her past the stokers and up to the driver’s bench. The man looked down from behind the wheel and sneered as he recognised Luise.

  “You took my shovel, Miss.”

  “Yes,” Hari nodded, “she did. But we are willing to let you keep the steam carriage.”

  “Willing to let us keep it?” the man laughed. “We already have it. You abandoned it.”

  “Truly, we did. But we are willing to let you have it, if only you will take us as far as St. James’s Park.” Hari pointed up the street. “It is not very far.”

  The man waited for the rest of the work gang to finish stoking the furnace. The men slowly formed a circle around Hari and Luise. Shahin flew above, descending in lazy circles. Hari held out his hand and the men staggered back as the hawk landed on his wrist.

  “That’s a fine trick,” the driver pointed at Shahin. “I know a bit about birds. I keep pigeons myself. Where is she from?”

  “Shahin comes from the mountains of Afghanistan.” Hari stepped closer to the carriage and lifted her up to give the driver a better look.

  “She’s a pretty thing.” The man reached out with a crooked finger and stroked Shahin’s breast.

  “Ah,” Hari nodded, “you have the touch.”

  “Lads,” the man withdrew his finger and scratched his head, “why don’t we drop these two off? We are going their way.” He looked down at Luise. “Are you going to be trouble, Miss?”

  “No,” Luise smiled. “I will be an exemplary passenger.”

  “Then climb aboard.” The man patted the passenger seat on the bench. “I think we three can sit up here while the lads pile inside.”

  “We are most grateful.” Hari and Luise walked around the front of the carriage, climbed the short ladder and sat on the bench.

  “I used to drive an older model for the factory,” the man lifted the throttle chain and hooked it in position. He smoothed the gear lever into first gear. “I don’t know what you did to it, but I have not seen a more sorry carriage in all my life. You should be paying us to take it off your hands.”

  “Truly.” Hari tucked his fist behind his elbow as Shahin shifted her talons upon his forearm.

  Luise leaned her head on Hari’s shoulder and closed her eyes. “It’s just for a moment,” she whispered. “It has been a long day.”

  “And a new day is just begun.” Hari leaned back against the carriage cab as it rolled forward through the drizzle and dirt of London.

  ҉

  Pit-crews from each of the competing teams muscled steamracers onto the starting line. Rain drops peeled off the vibrant chassis and soaked the men and women making last minute adjustments to the boilers, the wheels, the drivers. Steam whistled out of each of the engines, filling the air and taunting the crowds with the smell of coal dust, charcoal and excitement.

  Romney rested her palms on the steering wheel of her blood red racer as Dieter and Bremen’s mechanics pushed her into position, one half-length behind Robshaw’s racing green steamracer.

  “Romney,” Dieter leaned over the windshield. “You must get out. The race of-fficials are meeting with all the drivers and there will be an inspection of the steamracers.”

  “What kind of inspection?” Romney pushed herself out of the cockpit and stepped onto the surface of the road. The light rain made little impact on the hard-packed earth.

  “Just routine.” Dieter walked beside Romney, guiding her to the small canvas pavilion tent by the side of the road. “Although,” he paused, “the Wallendorf steamracers are attracting a lot of attention.”

  Romney pushed her goggles onto her forehead and tucked a curl of hair behind her ear. She scanned the crowd on either side of the road. “Who are those men on horseback?”

  “Them?” Dieter paused. “They look like soldiers. They must be here f-for security.”

  “And the spectators?” Romney nodded at a group of thin, shabbily-dressed women clutching the hands of street urchins squirming at their sides. “They are not the usual crowd. Where are the Lords and Ladies, the toffs and touts? These people hardly look like they have the energy to stand.”

  “The Derby attracts all kinds, Romney.” Dieter pointed at the parade of parasols and umbrellas decorating both sides of the road one hundred feet beyond the starting line. “That’s the f-finish line. That’s where the money is.” Dieter stopped at the entrance to the Race Marshall’s tent. “Here’s Herr Bremen, waiting f-for you.”

  “Thanks, Dieter.” Romney took a deep breath and entered the tent.

  “The inspection will start thirty minutes from now.” The Race Marshall lifted his hands as the drivers and crews murmured, filling the tent with a buzz of indignation and accusation. “You’re irritated, I understand. You’re keen to get back to the last minute tinkering and tire-kicking that might just win the race. But understand this, ladies and gentlemen,” he leaned upon the podium in front of him, “the Greater London Derby is an international – mark my words – international event and it will be supervised in accordance with international rules. Now,” he pointed at Bremen, “you are all wondering how Mr. Bremen’s steamracers have passed the preliminary inspections.” The Marshall waited for the murmurs to subside. “I can only assure you that they have, and that the technology has been shared liberally across the field. This will be,” he raised his voice, “a race to remember. A Derby the likes of which the world has never seen. Drivers,” he stared around the room, “I expect you to be cooperative with the press during the period of inspection. If you’ll follow me.” Collecting his papers, the Marshall stepped down from the deck and led the drivers through a canvas partition in the tent to the waiting corps of press.

  “Go on now, Fräulein Wallendorf.” Bremen pushed Romney forward. “They are expecting you. Be your once natural and flirtatious self.”

  Romney fell into step behind the other drivers, ducking as she walked through the partition. Inside the press area, race o
fficials lined the drivers up for a group photo before a bank of bellows cameras on wooden tripods. Romney let herself be pushed into position between Robshaw and the Italian driver Lanteri.

  “Smile, Romney,” Robshaw draped his arm around her shoulders. “It is all a game; we are just playing our part.”

  “Something you are better at than me,” Romney muttered.

  Drawing her close, Robshaw whispered in her ear. “I have chosen sides. I am trying to help.”

  Ignoring Robshaw, Romney stepped away from the British steamracer and forced a smile upon her lips as the photographers prepared their cameras.

  Lanteri turned her head to stare at Romney. “This will take more than half an hour.” The Italian folded her arms across her chest and scowled.

  ҉

  The carriage bumped to a halt at the outer edge of the steamracer camp. Hari and Luise climbed down, waved at the man behind the wheel and slipped into the trees lining the road. Shahin flapped into the upper branches, twisting her head, looking for prey.

  “We could do with some food,” Luise pointed at the caravan closest to them. “What do you think?”

  Hari shook his head. “Not yet. Let us get closer to the starting line. Perhaps we will find Mr. Smith and the Admiral?”

  “Wait,” Luise pressed her hand against Hari’s arm before stepping inside the open doorway of a caravan awning. Pulling jackets and hats from a stand, Luise returned with a bundle of clothes in her arms. She handed Hari the clothes, removed her satchel, and pulled a large dark coat over her damp green jacket. Reaching for a cloth cap from the bundle in Hari’s arms, Luise tucked her hair beneath the cap. “What do you think?”

  “Different,” Hari grinned. Pulling a jacket over his shirt, Hari buttoned it.

  Luise looked at Hari’s turban. Running back to the clothes stand, she returned with a long grey scarf. She handed it to Hari.

  “Thank you, Miss Luise. It will do.” Hari wrapped the scarf around his turban.