Cold Stone & Ivy Book 2: The Crown Prince (The Empire of Steam)

by H. Leighton Dickson

  Sebastien bolted across the walk in pursuit but the cab jerked once, twice, before peeling off onto the road. The flash of a pale face in the window was the last they saw before the cab disappeared into the crush of black on the street. Sebastien had turned back then, his breath falling to the ground like snow. The look he gave her broke her heart.

  Now, they sat in a steamcab of their own, bumping along the crowded Ringstrasse of Vienna. Sebastien stared out the window, his dark lenses blocking most of the dead and much of the living. As they drove into the heart of the city, Ivy was surprised to see no horse-drawn carriages, only steamcars. Their cabbie was a squat tin-plated automaton with handlebar moustache and copper top hat named MAX and he rode the stick as if part of it. All of the drivers were automatons, their human passengers little more than blank faces in icy windows. It was unnerving, but she had to admit she hadn’t seen any accidents either, four-wheeled or otherwise. It was a very different world than she had expected and the words of Mary Jane Kelly ran through her head.

  She didn’t even notice the vehicle lurch to a halt until the Mad Lord reached a hand to help her out of the cab.

  “Where are we?”

  “Hofburg Palace,” he said, pushing the lenses up onto his forehead. “It has almost twenty wings.”

  She stepped out, marveling at the labyrinth of the tall white buildings that rose up on either side. Pillars and arches, cornices and buttresses, statues and domes and peaks in a maelstrom of architectural styles. It was impressive, it was claustrophobic and it went on as far as she could see.

  “Twenty wings. I believe it.”

  “It’s a bloody rabbit warren. Built up since the twelve hundreds or thereabouts.”

  “Almost as old as Rupert,” she grinned.

  “Marginally.” And he smiled. “Driver, keep our place. We’ll be heading to the Hotel Sacher next.”

  “Ja, mein Herr,” squawked MAX, his language program translating the English words as quickly as Sebastien could speak them. “Ve vill vait here.”

  She took the Mad Lord’s arm and together they headed through the narrow laneway into the square.

  Gentlemen in black towncoats, women in furs, soldiers everywhere standing guard in the snow. In the centre of the square, a statue towered much the way Charles I towered over Trafalgar. It was a man on horseback – an emperor most likely, with a name etched in copper. She craned her neck but Sebastien kept on, dragging her toward an angled building with grey capstones. For the first time since arriving in Vienna, she could smell horses and wondered if this was the ‘Stallburg’ of which he spoke. If it were, then these would be the first horses she had seen since leaving Lasingstoke Hall.

  Uniformed automatons in white-plumed helmets stopped them at the door. Vienna’s Silver Hussars had no faces and their heads shone like mirrors under their Shako helms. Their arms were sabres and pistols but they wore cloth uniforms instead of metal. Ivy wondered who had dressed them, or if they came that way.

  “Darf ich Ihre Papiere?” asked one, its voice layered and inhuman.

  Sebastien pulled an envelope out of his great coat and handed it over to the guard.

  Almost immediately, the automata clicked heels. They were wearing wheels like Arvin Frankow and while one spun off with the envelope, the other led them under the arched ceiling and down a white corridor. She raised a brow by way of asking.

  “Silver Hussars,” said Sebastien. “Quite terrifying but not very clever.”

  “Not them,” she grinned. “Your secret papers.”

  “Ah,” he said. “From Sisi.”

  “Sisi? Not…”

  “The Gilded Empress Elizabeth, yes. She and my mother shared a love of dogs, horses, and all things mystical. It’s an open invitation to tour the Imperial Stables. It seemed like an opportune time to fetch it out of the drawer.”

  “All because you share a love of horses.”

  “The love of animals cuts across all classes, Miss Savage. It is a very common denominator.”

  “Like mystery.”

  “Or murder.”

  “Or love.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  The smell of horses, pine and leather grew stronger and soon, the guard stepped aside, ushering them into the largest arena she had ever seen. It was easily over three stories in height with marble pillars, crystal chandeliers and grey trim on the walls. It looked like a museum, she thought, a museum with sand floors, leaded windows and opera seating. But in this museum, the artwork was dancing.

  Five horses as white as snow reared, leapt, pranced in place while eight men worked with them, some mounted, some on the ground, each intent on their exercises to the exclusion of all else. There was no one else in the arena and it echoed with the sound of working horses and men.

  “The Spanish Riding School,” said Sebastien and he led her over to a row of chairs under a balcony. It was the only seating on ground level – all else were in the galleries high above. “These are the morning lessons. It’s been years since I’ve seen the Lipizzaners of Vienna.”

  “Why is it called the Spanish Riding School when it’s in Vienna?” she asked as they took chairs in the second row.

  “The horses are of Spanish stock, descended from Andalusians of Lipica.”

  “And there you go,” she said.

  It was quiet save for the jingling of tack, the squeak of leather and soft voices in German. The movements of the horses were fluid and hypnotic. The lightness of hoof, the ripple of mane and soon, she felt the strain of the morning begin to lift. This was truly a magical place.

  Next to her, Sebastien leaned forward, folded his arms across the chair in front.

  “There are at least thirty in here,” he said. “Thirty that have noticed me. I would slip on the lenses but that would cut my view of the horses.”

  It took her a moment to understand. She leaned forward, copying his pose.

  “Surely, the thirty are long dead?”

  “Yes, long. Which is why they’re only looking. I’m grateful for that fact.” He dropped his chin on his arms. “Why does he hate me so, Miss Savage? Am I truly such a terrible brother?”

  She sighed.

  “It’s not you, Sebastien,” she said. “I’m sure of it. We’ve all had a rough go. He needs time to heal, and not just his arm. We all need time to heal.”

  Sebastien grunted and they sat for a while longer, allowing their spirits to dance with the horses.

  “Ghostlight,” he began softly, “Changed me.”

  Her heart thudded in her chest. He never spoke of Ghostlight, the locket that had caused such devastation in London’s East End.

  “She opened doors for me, doors to worlds I can’t begin to explain. The ice is not ice. The frost is not frost. I don’t know what they are and I want to know. I want to know more so I want her back. As corrupting as she was, I want her back.”

  “She’s gone.”

  “I can still hear her. She moves the blood in my veins.”

  “She sank in the Thames along with the rest of the Docks.”

  “She didn’t. She’s with the Ghost Club in London, although how she got there is beyond me.” He blinked slowly. “I could call her anytime. She would come like a bullet from a pistol.”

  Ivy swallowed, trying to still the dread rising inside her. And, truth be told, more than just a little anger. She looked back.

  “That would be a very bad idea, Sebastien. Ghostlight is a diabolical device. At least five women murdered that we know of, likely more, and then what she did to poor Christien—”

  “That was my father, Miss Savage. Ghostlight was merely a tool.”

  “Ghostlight almost killed you.”

  “Would that have been such a terrible thing?”

  “Yes, Sebastien, it would have. Death is not an option, not when life is yours for the taking.”

  “Life.” He sighed now. “I do try, Miss Savage. I try to be good, I try to be strong, but when all I see is death and dying, sometimes ‘l
ife’ is very hard to see.”

  She studied him, felt the rush of conflicting emotion that always accompanied his darker moods and cursed Christien for being so damned perceptive. She took a deep breath.

  “Look at me,” she said.

  He did.

  “Tell me what you see.”

  He blinked slowly.

  “Dark hair, green eyes, a sprinkle of freckles on your nose. A very pleasant smile when you do choose to smile. Which is not as often nowadays—”

  “No,” she said and she turned in her chair to face him. “When I look at you, I see freedom. I see freedom and courage and wonder and hope. When you look at me, what…do you see?”

  And she captured him in her eyes, forbade him to look away, pulled him deeper than she had ever dared before, deeper even than that night under St. Katharine’s Pier. Now, like then, he swallowed.

  “I…”

  She arched a brow. “What do you see?”

  “I see…”

  She grinned her lop-sided grin.

  “I see…” He swallowed again. “A horse…”

  “A horse…”

  “A horse.” He turned back to the arena, released a breath that traveled up like snowflakes. “There. A white horse.”

  “There are five white horses, Sebastien,” she grumbled and sank back, folding her arms across her chest. “Which one of them is me?”

  “He has red eyes. The shake of his mane looses arrows.”

  She looked over at the horses. Of the five Lipizzaners, not one of them matched his description.

  He rose to his feet.

  “Kai eidon, kai idou hippos leukos!”

  “Sebastien?”

  “Kai ho kathemenos ep auton ekhon toxon, kai edothe auto stephanos, kai exelthen nikon, kai hina nikese.”

  All activity in the arena ceased, the horsemen stopped to stare. Someone began barking in German but Ivy was convinced German was not the language on the Mad Lord’s tongue at the moment.

  He yanked her to her feet.

  “He’s coming this way, Miss Savage. Best to duck or get out of the way!”

  And without warning, he pushed her into the arena wall as a blast of cold air struck like a fist. It blew the bowler from her head and lifted the Mad Lord off his feet and into the chairs with the sound of shattering ice. The Lipizzans bolted in different directions, men chased after them and soon, the arena filled with silver soldiers, sabre-arms pointed and rifles at the ready.

  She pushed herself off the wall, scrambled over to Sebastien’s side.

  He was covered in frost from his hair to his boots, and tentatively, she touched his arm, remembering the vivid description of a dog shattered into a thousand pieces.

  “Laury?” she asked. “Laury, are you alright?”

  “Yes, Miss Savage,” he panted. “I think so.”

  He released a deep breath before pushing himself to hands and knees. He looked up at her, ice sliding in thin plates from his face to the sandy floor. It was then that she saw his eyes.

  Like the Lipizzan horses of the Spanish Riding School, his eyes were as white as the snow.

  ***

  Le Petit Journal – Strasbourg,

  29, January 1889

  The search has begun for three young boys who have gone missing in the territory west of Kolmar last evening. The boys are thought to have gone exploring the Roman ruins around the city. If the public has any knowledge of their whereabouts, they are asked to come forward to police at once.

  ***

  The Hotel Sacher was very different from Lasingstoke Hall – veined marble instead of aged wood, statues instead of bookcases, the heavy odor of fresh flowers instead of horse or wet dog. It was elegant, located across from the State Opera and served a fine cup of coffee. Coffee was all the rage in Austria. Rupert loved his coffee. Christien doubted that he could say the same, no matter how long he spent in Vienna.

  At the moment, it was a Scotch he was nursing and he stared out the window at the snowy Opera roof. Another thing he would have to learn to love if Valerie asked him to stay. He lifted the Scotch, hearing the gears and pulleys work to move the glass, and he wondered what she would think, if she would allow him to touch her with a clockwork hand, if it would be considered a crime against the Empire. He grinned darkly to himself. If she only knew what else that hand had been guilty of, she would surely not let him touch her at all.

  He was alone in the room save for an automaton busy steaming the wrinkles out of the suit and tails. It was a white tie affair and he had come prepared, although he had no hopes of impressing her with a suit. He was not a fine dancer, he was not given to polite conversation, and while he did have a keen mind for politics, he doubted that subject would be on the table given the nature of the party. Kaiser Wilhelm was not a popular figure on the international stage. It was a good thing he wasn’t expected tonight.

  No, there was nothing he could use to impress the daughter of an Emperor save for his fine, fine face. At least the Ripper had left him that.

  He looked down at the photochrome she had sent him last month. Valerie was a beauty with dark blonde hair, long elegant neck and lips that begged a lingering kiss. But it was her eyes that captivated him. Clever, deep and quick and he could read the stories that they told, stories of a harsh father, a free-spirited mother and a life of duty, obligation and privilege. It was a story he understood well. He knew those eyes hid almost as much as they told, if not more.

  There was a knock at the door and he downed the Scotch before crossing the carpet. The door opened onto the sight of an Imperial Hussar, dressed in red coat and tall shako helmet. He was accompanied by a brigade of silver-faced automatons and in the centre of them all, a woman.

  His heart thudded in his chest.

  The woman spoke to the soldiers and they wheeled aside, allowing her to move to the door. She was very young and slim, dressed in a town coat with sable at the collar and her hands were hidden in a roll of black fox. Her hair was tucked under a fur bonnet, her lips full and painted the colour of peaches, her eyes hazel, deeply set and sharp as steel.

  Marie Valerie Mathilde Amalie von Habsburg, Archduchess of Austria.

  She lowered her lids, all the while a smile playing with her mouth.

  “Lord de Lacey,” she said, her English accented in high German. “Is the room to your satisfaction?”

  “The room is exquisite. Thank you, Your Royal Highness.”

  And he inclined his head. He had no idea if he should bow, kiss her hand, fall to the floor in genuflection. He was the second son of a deceased minor Baron and not a Lord at all. These were games played by those of higher society, ones she had been playing all her life.

  “I would like to see for myself. To be certain.”

  There was a murmur from the Hussar captain but she silenced him with a flash of those eyes.

  “By all means, Your Royal Highness,” said Christien and stepped aside, holding the doors as she swept through. “Would your guard care to inspect the room as well?”

  “No need,” she said. “I booked the room. I will inspect it. My captain is no expert in hotel décor. That is something he will leave to me. Is it not, Captain?”

  The Hussar clicked his heels and Christien closed the door behind her.

  The Archduchess stood with her back to him, head held proudly with the carriage of a swan. There was only the ticking of an ornate mantel clock, the hiss of the automaton working the steampress, the thud of his heart in his chest.

  “We are alone?” she asked, sweeping the room with her eyes.

  “Yes, Your Royal Highness. Completely.”

  She turned those steely eyes on him now, swept up and down his lean body clad only in trousers, shirt and braces, paused for only a heartbeat at the tangle of cables that was his arm, finally coming to rest on his face.

  “Yes,” she said. “The décor is acceptable. Does it meet with your approval?”

  “I have never seen anything as beautiful in my life,” he
said.

  Slowly, she reached down to the key, locking the door with a click.

  He was certain his heart stopped at that moment.

  She rushed at him, catching his face in her hands and crushing his mouth with hers. He gasped and together they staggered backwards, stopped only by the wall and she quickly covered his surprise with kisses until there was nothing left but the want of her. His fingers fumbled with her buttons but her hands were the experts, moving across his body, pulling at the braces, sliding under his shirt, into his hair. She tasted like peaches, like peaches soaked in brandy and he couldn’t get enough of her, her cheek, her throat, her velvet hair when he began to feel the Hussars pounding the door on the other side.

  “Ihre königliche Hoheit! Öffnen Sie die Tür!”

  “Einen Moment, Kapitän,” she snapped. “Die Möbel umstellen…”

  She tore herself away, her breath coming in shallow gasps, but quickly composed herself, smoothed her hair under the bonnet, fastened the buttons he had managed to undo. She glanced up at him, her eyes steely once more.

  “Fix your hair,” she ordered and he did as best he could, trying to pull himself together before she turned the key in the lock. The Hussars wheeled in, sabre-arms at the ready and she turned to them.

  “We were rearranging the furniture,” she said. “Silly hotel. You never place a side table at the wrong end of a room.”

  “Of course,” said the Captain. “Sacher décor is held to the highest standard.”

  The Captain glanced down at the fox roll on the floor. She bent to retrieve it, hiding her hands inside it once more and smiled.

  “We shall see you again tonight, Lord de Lacey?”

  “I am looking forward to it, Your Royal Highness.”

  “I shall have a coach sent for you at eight.”

  And with that, she swept out of the room, the Hussars in tow and he closed the door behind them all, sagged against it for a long moment, waiting for his heartbeat to return to normal.

  Yes, he thought wryly, he was likely to be committing many crimes during his stay in Vienna.

  He turned back to the window and the Scotch.