by Paul Crilley
At least the fire won't spread to the other houses now, thought Octavia.
Tweed turned right at the end of Wellington Place, moving onto the busy traffic of Arbour Street. They spotted Moriarty straight away. There weren't many horse-driven carriages nowadays. They were used mostly by the Traditionalists, who refused to have anything to do with modern transport, or the extremely rich, who used horses in a pathetic attempt to be different or eccentric.
The thickening mist had slowed the traffic in the steam-driven lanes, a lucky thing because it would have looked odd if Tweed drove his steamcoach at the same pace as Moriarty's carriage.
The automata pulling carriages had lifted the plates covering their æther cages, allowing the white light of the trapped souls to illuminate the way forward through the dark and mist, the glow sending a cone of hazy light out in front of them. Moriarty's carriages had lanterns hung above the driver's seat, the bouncing of the wheels causing the lights to swing wildly.
They followed Moriarty onto Commercial Road, then onto Fleet Street and into the Strand. Octavia glanced out at Trafalgar Square as they passed, her attention drawn to the massive brass statue of Sir Charles Babbage that had been erected in the square twenty years ago. In one hand Sir Charles held a tiny gear between his finger and thumb, and with his other he was plucking a star from the sky. The plinth on which his statue rested was surrounded by eight different automaton designs, ranging from the very first prototype to the most modern version.
The statue was four times the height of Nelson's column, and had become the focus of hatred for those opposed to the rapid state of change in their society. Every couple of years the Traditionalists tried to destroy it, and every couple of months it was defaced with ever-increasingly imaginative insults.
Only last week there was a riot in the square, one of the worst London had experienced in a decade. It was rumored to have been started by the Traditionalists’ new leader, someone vehemently opposed to Babbages and automata. The government was trying to crack down on the Traditionalists, saying they were spreading sedition and discontent. Octavia thought this was the wrong move. By marking them as dangerous, the government was actually giving the Traditionalists more power, instead of just dismissing them as crackpots who wanted to live in the past.
The traffic slowed as it moved through Charing Cross, then Moriarty's carriage turned into Whitehall. Octavia felt a glimmer of unease at this. She and Tweed shared a puzzled look. Why would Moriarty be heading into the political hub of the city? He would certainly draw attention to himself if anyone saw him in that ludicrous mask he wore. Designed to strike fear into the hearts of his victims, yes, but not exactly inconspicuous.
But the carriage went even deeper into Whitehall. The Thames was now on their left as they drove onto Parliament Street. The traffic thinned out drastically here, so Tweed had to slow down so they wouldn't be spotted.
They passed Downing Street, then turned left onto Bridge Street, where Tweed quickly braked and pulled over to the side of the road. The gothic buildings of the Houses of Parliament dominated the skyline to their right, the huge, brightly lit structure towering over the River Thames. The new, nearly completed Clock Tower could just be seen through the mist, a dim, shadowy outline towering above Big Ben, reaching high into the sky.
Below the lights of Westminster Bridge Octavia could just make out the orange lantern hanging from Moriarty's hansom swinging slowly to a standstill.
“They've stopped,” said Octavia.
Tweed glanced at her. “Amazing powers of observation there. Pity you didn't use them earlier.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You almost got yourself killed back there!”
Octavia blinked at him in surprise. She'd thought he was being a bit silent as they followed Moriarty, but she'd put that down to him concentrating on the chase. Was he angry at her?
“It wasn't something I intended, I assure you,” she said.
“But you must have felt the heat on the door. Why would you do something so stupid?”
“What are you talking about? Of course the door was hot. The house was on fire. What else did you expect me to do? He might have been alive in there.”
Oddly, Tweed looked disappointed. “Ah. So you didn't know.”
“Know what?”
“Backdraft. Common occurrence. Heat in an enclosed space causes a buildup of pressure. When that pressure is released, it explodes outward.”
“So, let me get this straight. You were angry at me for doing something you thought was stupid. And now you seem angry—or at least disappointed—that I didn't know what I was doing was stupid. Have I got that right?”
Tweed turned away and stared through the mist.
“You really are incredibly hard to understand, Sebastian Tweed.”
“Look.” Tweed inclined his head forward.
Octavia leaned forward next to him and could just make out a hunched figure walking from the direction of the Houses of Parliament, heading toward Moriarty's carriage. He used a walking stick to aid his movements.
Tweed watched this for a moment, then leaped from his seat and crawled through a small opening into the back of the carriage. Octavia turned to see what he was doing.
Tweed pulled up a cushion on one of the chairs in the messy space. He reached inside the base of the seat and pulled out something metallic. He wound it up and dropped it onto a workbench, then moved away to do something else. Octavia's eyes widened, because stretching and unfolding its legs on the workbench was a small silver and brass spider.
Octavia fell instantly in love with it. She climbed through the opening and into the cramped quarters, getting up close to the construct. It was beautifully designed. The thin, elegant legs were the work of a master craftsman. There was even faint decoration carved into the metal. The head of the spider was carved to resemble the creature it was based on, with a lens dominating the center of the head. As she watched, the lens closed, then opened. The spider scuttled toward her.
Octavia turned to find Tweed seated before some kind of machine, staring into a cloudy sepia viewing glass. She saw her own face displayed in the glass.
“It's magnificent,” she breathed. What she wouldn't give for something like this. It would make her work so much easier. “It must have cost a fortune.”
“Not really,” said Tweed. “I made it.”
Octavia fought unsuccessfully to keep the surprise from her face. She looked at the spider then back at Tweed. “You?”
“Yes, me.”
“You made this?”
“Yes.”
“All of it?”
“Yes. Why do you keep asking me the same question?”
“I just didn't see you as…being good with your hands, I suppose.”
“I'm very good with my hands,” said Tweed, offended.
“Sorry. How does it work?”
“Ah, well, the programming was mostly done by a friend of mine. Stepp Reckoner.”
“Stepp…?”
“Reckoner.”
“Stepp Reckoner?”
“It's not her real name, ‘Songbird.’”
“Well, obviously.”
Tweed finished adjusting something on the machine. “Right. Ready to go.”
He swung the back door of the carriage open. The spider scuttled off the workbench and hopped outside. Tweed pulled the door shut and moved back to the viewing glass. Octavia joined him, watching as the glass showed an image of wet cobbles moving rapidly beneath the spider's feet.
“Joking aside,” she said reluctantly, “that thing really is a marvel. You should apply for work as a Babbage designer. Actually, scratch that. A Lovelace designer. That thing is definitely elegant enough. Who taught you?”
“Barnaby,” said Tweed. “He taught me everything.”
“Careful,” said Octavia suddenly. “It's going to hit the old man.”
Tweed turned a small dial on the machine in front of him. The spider stopped movi
ng forward, but the old man carried on walking until he arrived at the carriage. Tweed gently nudged the dial and the spider scuttled forward, perching underneath the hansom as the man rapped on the door with his cane.
“Good evening, Lucien,” said a crackly voice. Although it was crackly, Octavia could tell it was a strong voice. She couldn't imagine it coming from the old man. It had to be Moriarty.
“No it isn't. It's a foul evening.”
“Please yourself. Do you have what we need?”
“Of course. His current favorite route takes him through St. James's Park every night.”
“Good.”
“He starts his walk about midnight. You have to do it tonight, so I have enough time to prepare for the state banquet. I hardly need to say this, but the assassination has to go exactly as planned. Any deviation means the Ministry will be suspected. I can't have that.” The old man—Lucien—smacked his cane angrily on the ground, raising a small splash of muddy water that peppered the spider's lens, causing the image to blur into nothingness. “I despise leaving this so late, but the damned fool changes his route every week. Had to make sure he'd stick to it.”
“Don't worry. Everything will go smoothly.”
“Good. Farewell, then.”
They still couldn't see anything on the viewing glass. Octavia leaned forward and stared out the front of the carriage and saw Lucien walk slowly back into the Houses of Parliament.
“Why is a politician meeting with Professor Moriarty to talk about assassination?” she asked. “That can't be good.”
“Is the coach still there?” asked Tweed.
Octavia shifted her gaze. The hansom was moving forward now, heading across the bridge to the east side of the Thames. “He's moving! Quick, can't you get that spider onto the carriage? It can show us where he's going.”
“I'm trying,” said Tweed.
Octavia glanced at the screen and saw that it was still blurry from the muddy water. Tweed spun the dial, causing the unclear image to leap and judder. She realized he was trying to get the spider to leap onto the carriage without actually being able to see what he was doing.
Then the image froze, shook violently, and turned black, accompanied by a metallic crunching sound. Tweed cursed and pushed himself up, bumping his head in the process. He cursed again and rubbed his head.
“Damn thing got itself run over,” he said.
He scrambled back through to the front of the carriage and pumped the lever to get a good head of steam going. But the lever moved too easily. Tweed swore for a third time and sighed.
“Throw some coal in the boiler, will you?”
Octavia stared at him. “You mean we can't follow them?”
“Not unless you want to get out and run, no.”
Octavia glared across the bridge in frustration. She was actually considering it. They couldn't just let them get away like this! They had to keep Moriarty in sight. He was the only link to her mother. And to Tweed's father.
“Forget it,” said Tweed, as if reading her mind. “You'll never be able to catch up.”
“But we're just letting them get away! They're our only lead.”
“Not quite,” said Tweed. “We know they're going to be at St. James's Park at midnight tonight. We can find them there.”
Octavia thought about this. “All that talk about assassination. Do you think they were talking about assassinating Meriweather? Perhaps they found out where he was hiding.”
“I…don't think so,” said Tweed. “The way they were speaking, talking about the banquet…” He stared out the window, a worried look on his face. “Octavia, the only banquet I know about, the one everyone is talking about, is the state banquet at Buckingham Palace for Nicholas II.”
Octavia's eyes widened. “You think they're gong to assassinate the Russian tsar? But why?”
Tweed shrugged. “I have absolutely no idea. But if Nicholas Romanov is assassinated on British soil, I think it's fair to say there will be a lot of very angry Russians. The way things have been between our countries, who knows what will happen.”
“War?”
“Possibly.” Tweed sighed. “Come on, let's get going. I need to introduce you to some very close friends of mine.”
The carriage lurched to a stop outside a well-appointed, three-story house just off Regent Street. A cloud of steam wafted forward, surrounding the carriage and cutting off Tweed's view. But not before he saw the lights in the windows. He felt a surge of relief. They were back.
“Who lives here?” asked Octavia.
“Carter Flair and Jenny Turner.”
“Carter Flair?” said Octavia dubiously.
“Not his real name,” replied Tweed. “He's a thief and a con man. Carter Flair is just the name he uses between jobs.”
“Ah. More of your father's friends?”
“Yes. And if it weren't for them, we wouldn't be in this mess.”
“What do you mean? Can't we trust them?”
“Oh, yes. We can trust them. But the only reason I went to Harry Banks was because they weren't home.”
He climbed out of the carriage and rapped sharply on the door. A minute later is was opened to reveal Carter Flair, peering at Tweed and leaning against the door frame. His short frame was wiry; he had lost a lot of weight since Tweed last saw him. His dark hair was just long enough to look untidy, or if styled correctly, dashingly unkempt. He looked Tweed up and down, then turned languidly to call over his shoulder, “Darling, there's a waif at the door.” Carter leaned forward and squinted over Tweed's shoulder. “And he appears to have kidnapped a young lady. A pretty young lady.”
At these words a woman appeared from one of the rooms opening off from the corridor. She had short red hair, untidy and spiky. Tweed grinned at her. Jenny had never been one to care what others thought, and her new look certainly reflected that. She wore men's clothes: tweed trousers, a large, baggy shirt, and a waistcoat three sizes too large.
“Darling!” she exclaimed.
“Yes?” said Carter.
“Not you. I'm talking to the true love of my life. Young Tweed over there.” She glanced over Tweed's shoulder. “You'll have to fight me for him, girly.”
Octavia raised her hands in the air. “You're welcome to him.”
Jenny winked at Tweed. “Playing hard to get, is she? Don't worry. Your natural charm will win her over.”
Tweed tried his best to ignore the snort of amusement from behind him.
“You two are in serious trouble,” Tweed said.
Carter straightened up and looked at Jenny. “I knew your disreputable past would catch up with us some day. What's she done?”
“I came looking for you yesterday. You weren't here.”
“Oh. We were at dinner,” said Jenny, linking arms with Carter. “Then dancing, then robbing a few rooms at the Grand. It was very romantic, wasn't it, dear?” Jenny kissed Carter on the cheek.
“Her birthday,” said Carter. “Sort of a tradition. Dinner, dancing, robbery. What did you want with us?”
“Barnaby's been kidnapped,” said Tweed.
The look of playfulness on Carter and Jenny's faces dropped in an instant. Jenny pushed Carter back into the house, then ushered Tweed and Octavia inside.
“Come on. In. In,” she said, waving her hands impatiently at the two of them. “Through there,” she said, pointing to one of the rooms. “Go.”
The admittedly small amount Tweed knew about relationships and how couples related to each other he had learned from Jenny and Carter. He'd known them as long as he could remember, and even from a truly early age he'd been aware of one thing: The two were madly in love, and would always be madly in love. They teased, they bickered, they insulted each other, but it was always lighthearted. It was how they showed each other they cared.
He'd once asked Barnaby about them and he said they were childhood friends who grew up on the same street. When Carter was eighteen he was caught trying to steal the money clip off a politician and
was sent to Millbank Prison. When Jenny heard about it, she broke him out, but only after getting him to reveal his true feelings for her.
They got married three months later and had been together ever since.
Tweed always felt himself relax in their presence. The joking, the merciless jibes, the banter, it was all done from a place of love, a place of warmth, and that warmth filled their home. Tweed came away from his visits with them feeling energized, open to the world, ready to take on whatever life had to offer.
When Tweed finished telling them everything that had happened, Carter and Jenny exchanged glances.
“I'll kill that Harry Banks,” said Jenny, standing up and pacing furiously up and down. She stabbed the air with an imaginary blade, yanking it up as if gutting someone. “Slit him from balls to throat. I always said he was a bad ’un. Didn't I?” She pointed her imaginary knife at Carter.
“You did. I can't quite remember when, but I'm sure you did. Positive.”
“You know who they saw, don't you? Who this Lucien fellow is?” said Jenny to Carter.
“Lucien Mcallister. The head of the Ministry.”
“Exactly. One of the—if not the—most powerful men in the Empire.”
“But why would the Ministry be dealing with a criminal like Moriarty?” asked Tweed. “Aren't they a government department?”
Carter snorted. “The very fact that you think government departments wouldn't deal with criminals shows just how young you are, dear boy.” He paused, seemingly trying to gather his thoughts. “The Ministry is the shadow the government casts. Understand? Governments can change, but the Ministry is constant. Who is it that greets the new P.M. as he walks through the door of Number Ten Downing Street? It's the head of the Ministry.”
“The Ministry…deals in information,” cut in Jenny. “They trade it, horde it. Guard it like treasure. People say they're the real power behind the Crown. The real power behind the government.”
