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

by H. Leighton Dickson

  The Sentinel had stopped, groaning as it angled its helm to look down at her. The red eye began to glow and she felt her heart grow numb. She thought of the little boy’s boot, felt a rush of sadness to know she was likely wearing his coat. She wondered if he had been afraid before he died, if his parents missed him, if there had been pain. She looked over at Christien pushing himself out of the snow, saw the dread on his porcelain face, felt the world shrink to the sound of her own heart. After everything that she had lived through these last six months – the human heart in the post, the Milnethorpe murder, the Whitechapel Ripper and finally the horror of St. Katharine’s Docks, it was all reduced to the simple beating of her heart.

  The crack of a remarkable pistol changed everything.

  The Sentinel’s helm jerked back and sparks flew from the eye to the snow around her. She scrambled to her feet and threw herself to Christien’s side, grabbing his hand and pulling him to his feet as the Sentinel staggered back, each footfall booming like a cannon and forcing deep ruts in the ground. It was all they could do to avoid the massive legs as they dashed between and she could feel heat building up from the second Sentinel when another pistol shot echoed across the field. It lurched like a marionette with strings snapped and sparks rained down on their heads, sizzling into the snow around them.

  A roar and flare as a rocket sliced through the sky above her head. Across the field, the ground erupted as earth, snow and fire rose up where the Mad Lord of Lasingstoke had been.

  “No!” she cried, swinging her own pistol but the bullets pinged harmlessly off the metal. With slow, ground-shaking steps, it roared past her through the fence, catching it with its iron legs and dragging the barbed wire and the posts as it went.

  To her utter surprise, Christien rushed after it and with catlike grace, he leapt up onto a moving foot and held fast. His shoulders barely came up to the gears that worked its knees but as it carried him further, she could see him changing attachments on the clockwork hand. Further still as he connected his arm to the knee bolts with a click. Even further, she could hear the whine as both attachment and knee bolts began to spin. She reloaded her pistol and gave chase.

  Like an ironclad on the open seas, the Sentinel plowed across the field until a loud clang echoed, causing it to stop in its tracks. Christien sprang from his perch, rolling and coming up, hand dipped in snow for balance. The helm swiveled and from across the field, Ivy could see the red eye stare down at him, unblinking and inhuman. Slowly, carefully, Christien straightened and for a brief moment there was only the rush of the wind on the field.

  The Sentinel struck, swinging a savage backhand and sending him sailing like a ragdoll into the snow.

  She raced toward him and dropped to her knees, gathering him in her arms. He was not moving, the side of his face covered with mud, grease and blood. She scanned the field for sight of his brother. Not fifty feet away, Sebastien was pushing himself up out of the snow, face blackened, coat smoking from the blast. She doubted he could find his pistol now, let alone take out the Sentinel’s eye. As it stood above and between them, the helm swiveled first her way, then his. She could see the artillery fingers reload, hydraulics squealing and clicking with each motion. It was as if it was deciding which one of them to kill first and she cursed the analytical programming that was allowing such machines to think.

  With a deep breath, she pushed out of the snow, drew her pistol and aimed, waiting for the head to turn her way.

  It did not. It turned toward Sebastien and her heart leapt into her throat as she saw him scramble to escape. It took a step but only one, earth booming as the foot struck the ground. With the screech and groan of straining gears, the mechanical knee buckled, plates of the thigh sliding over pistons of the lower leg. Slowly, ever so slowly, the towering machine began to fall.

  “Sebastien!” she screamed, losing sight of him as the Sentinel crashed to the field, arsenal-arms flailing, iron legs shattering, wires springing from the joints and sparks leaping into the air, melting the snow as they landed. Bits of metal rained down and she threw herself over Christien, shielding him from the deadly hail. The Sentinel twitched and shuddered but finally hissed into the sky and did not move to get up.

  After a moment, she raised her head, searching but seeing nothing but smoke, steam and snow.

  “Miss Savage?”

  She blinked back tears as the Mad Lord of Lasingstoke sank down beside her in the snowy field of Reichsland. They sat that way for a while, the only sound being the soft rush of the wind until finally, Castlewaite’s voice calling their names.

  ***

  Death of Crown Prince Ruled a Shooting Mishap

  Illustrated London News

  We are informed that, according to a telegram from official sources in Vienna, the death of Crown Prince Rudolf has been deemed a fatal accident whilst shooting. According to Gilded Ambassador Count Kinsky, his Royal Highness was present at the state reception in honour of Kaiser Wilhelm II’s birthday and was reported in the best of health and spirits, full of his forthcoming visit to the shooting box at Mayerling, where his death has taken place.

  The funeral is to be held on February 5. The Prince of Wales will be the representative of Queen Victoria and the Empire of Steam. Prayers are being offered in the Austrian Chapel at Berkeley Square for the repose of the deceased Prince.

  It was originally reported the Prince’s death due to a state of apoplexy but examinations have proven death by a single gunshot wound to the head. State police are continuing to investigate.

  Chapter 9

  Of a Travelling Locket, a Dented Brace and the Matter with Dark Matter

  London News

  Theft in Pall Mall

  The preeminent Ghost Club of London and Cambridge is reporting a most unusual burglary at their Pall Mall address. There is no evidence of a break-in and there is only one item missing from their archives. According to Chair Dr. William Crookes, the stolen item is a several-hundred year old locket from the Normandy region of France. It’s said to have little monetary value, but is valuable in terms of its physical, anatomical and parapsychical properties.

  Police are continuing to investigate.

  ***

  “Kaffee, Fräulein?”

  “Oh thank you,” said Ivy and she took the mug, welcoming the heat in her hands. It was a bitter brew but it reminded her of Rupert’s fireside smokes at Lasingstoke. She smiled at the memory and wearily, looked around the room.

  The farmhouse was very old with a low timbered ceiling and walls of black stone but a fire roared in the hearth, filling the room with warmth and light. They had been rescued by a search party who had seen the smoke, and brought to this farmhouse near the town of Kolmar. Debris from the airship was strewn across a table and at least twenty people were going through it, speaking to each other in French, German or both. Sebastien had been invaluable earlier on, speaking both languages as he did, and somehow Ivy felt safe in this room filled with strangers. Life, she had realized, was infinitely stranger.

  For one thing, the party had not been searching for them.

  “Miss Ivy?”

  She looked up. Castlewaite was in a doorway, separated from the rest of the house by a woolen blanket. She leapt to her feet and met him, laying her hands on his sleeve.

  “Jerry?”

  “’e’s awake, miss,” he said. “And askin’ fer ye.”

  She slipped past him into a tiny room with a single chair and a cot. A man straightened as she entered. Dr. Schoenguar was Kolmar’s sole physician and on the cot, Christien. His face, throat and chest were in the ripe stages of bruising and one eye was almost swollen shut. Still he was the most beautiful man she had ever seen.

  She looked up at the physician.

  “He’ll live, yes?”

  “Ich werde leben?” Christien translated, grimacing with the effort.

  “Yah. You’ll liff,” the doctor scowled. “I vill find somevone vor zis.”

  And he held up the brace fo
r the clockwork arm.

  The arm itself was usually hidden by brace and sleeve and she couldn’t stop her eyes from going to the stump she had made so many months ago. It was affixed to the prosthetic by a long bloody screw, with wires and cables disappearing into the flesh of his upper arm. It looked like a mass of copper snakes entwined around a hydraulic crane and to see it exposed like this made her stomach turn.

  Christien sighed, mask falling into place.

  “It was dented,” he said flatly. “Dr. Schoengaur will find a blacksmith or something.”

  “Er müssen ruhen,” said the doctor. “He must rest.”

  And he slipped out under the wool blanket covering the door.

  She sat on the edge of the cot.

  “You did it,” she said. “Unscrewed that knee like a machinist.”

  “Medical man, machinist, murderer. Impressive list of accomplishments.”

  “It was very brave,” she said.

  “I knew you couldn’t save us with that pistol of yours.” He tried to move, hissed, settled back down again. “I don’t think it could dispatch a spaniel, let alone a Sentinel.”

  “I’m not the marksman Sebastien is.”

  “Is he dead yet?”

  He was trying so hard to be indifferent.

  “No,” she said. “He carried you until the villagers found us.”

  “Of course he would.”

  “They’re going to take us to Strasbourg tomorrow. There’s a telegraph office and steamtrain station. We can get to Paris from there. Maybe Rupert can arrange transport to London.”

  “You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you?” He closed his eyes, turned his face away. “You haven’t reckoned on the long arm of the Gilded Empire.”

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s a very, very long arm…”

  He was asleep before she knew it. Or a perfect likeness. All a part of the mask, she knew. Very fine, very fragile porcelain. She had seen it crack more than once but still didn’t know the man who lived behind it.

  With a sigh, she leaned forward to kiss his forehead on the one spot that wasn’t blue and rose to her feet, returning to the crowded kitchen.

  They stole curious glances at her while they talked, knowing she couldn’t understand. She sighed again, looking for but not finding Sebastien in the mob. They had found his pistol but not his black spectacles. She did see her bowler however, crushed and sitting on the wooden table along with her tattered peacoat and vestiges of the red lace dress. Canvas, gears, pipes and rope had all been salvaged and she suspected the towers had been looted as well. People combed the wreckage for items of use, of value or curiosity and it felt strange. They were going through bits of her life like it was market day, her possessions little more than cabbages or carrots or beets. Still, she was in a kitchen. She could still be out in the snow.

  The door blew open as an older couple entered and suddenly, all conversation in the farmhouse ceased. The woman moved into the kitchen but the man hung back and Ivy heard a name whispered between villagers. Face grey and cheeks gaunt, the woman eyed her coat. Ivy swallowed, slid the cap off her head.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know. I just found it in the snow by the towers.”

  She held out the cap.

  The woman took it, turned it over and over in her hands and Ivy could see tears welling in the deep-set eyes, felt her own throat grow tight. She looked down at the coat she was wearing, remembered how it had hung, lost and lonely, on the post.

  “This is his too, I think. Mine was lost in the wreckage, but it wasn’t really mine. It was my brother’s. I borrowed it from him and never gave it back. Rather like my hat. And you see this corset? I borrowed that too from a lunatic asylum. Now that is crazy, isn’t it? I seem to be borrowing everything. Clothing, adventures, storylines, companions. All borrowed from someone else, never given back. I am a greedy girl who wants everything at once. But I did buy the boots myself. Honestly, I did.”

  Her words ran out as she fumbled with the buttons and she couldn’t stop her chin from quivering.

  “Nein, Liebling,” said the woman. “You keep.”

  “No, no. Your son…”

  “Jens gone. You live.”

  She couldn’t stop the tears spilling from her lashes and the woman wiped them, smiling and sad. The old hands lifted the cap, took a long fond look and carefully set it onto Ivy’s head, tugging it down snug. She kissed her cheek and stepped back.

  “You live.”

  With a deep breath, Ivy nodded and rushed from the farmhouse and into the snow.

  ***

  The little girl struggles with breath, her normally pink cheeks pale, blonde curls slicked onto her forehead. Her mother is there, as is her father, but it is her mother who is the strong one. The physicians shake their heads. The sickness will kill her, they know this now. For all the Habsburg might and power, this sickness will kill her. There is nothing they can do.

  Unless the one from Slovakia can make a miracle. He has been experimenting on orphans in Prague with great success. So much success that all the royal houses of Europe want him. He is a clockwork genius, this little man, and he’s on his way from Prague to Budapest as fast as horses can fly. But little Sophie is so very sick…

  Sophie.

  Sebastien opened his eyes, not surprised to see orbs like silver coins floating between his hands. Arclight was near, he knew, most likely on the Stahl Mädchen somewhere overhead, heading for Strasbourg or Paris. He wondered if it were allowed, a Gilded warship flying the Republic’s skies. But then again, it was a Habsburg ship. No one would protest. Protesting would mean an international incident and those were to be avoided at all costs.

  Something he’d never managed to learn.

  He was sitting in the open mouth of a very old barn. It was more of a dugout built into the hillside, with thatched roof and straw covering the earthen floor. There were goats, cows, chickens and one horse, all housed in various timber stalls. The farm dog was sitting beside him and he was comforted by its presence. Dogs were good that way. He missed his dogs, hoped Rupert would treat them well. He doubted he would see them again.

  His head was throbbing and he reached to touch the bullet wound. Fresh blood oozed onto his fingers and he grimaced. Time for it to come out, so he pressed it forward between his scalp and the plates in his skull. The dog whimpered but he steeled himself, pressing all the more. Finally, it slipped out from the wound and into his palm, bloody and white and clearly not lead. He turned it over, not entirely surprised to find it a bullet made of bone.

  Sophie.

  He slipped it into a pocket and sighed, looking out over the fields. Behind him, the farmhouse was well lit and warm but he didn’t belong inside. Too many living, too many dead. Orbs circled like snowflakes, like mirrors, like coins. It was impossible to keep them away now and people, it seemed, did not do well with the orbs.

  He heard the farmhouse door and knew it was Ivy. He could smell the life on her. Life and leather and rose petals, her very peculiar scent and he breathed her in, wishing for so much more but knowing it was for the best. Death followed him, and so did she. It was only a matter of time before they met.

  He could hear the crunch of her boots in the snow, felt her warmth as she lowered down beside him. The dog wagged. It was a good dog.

  “Christien’s sleeping now,” she said. “I think he’ll be fine.”

  “Good.”

  “Those Sentinels killed three boys.”

  “Yes.”

  “You knew?” She turned to study him and he could tell she had been weeping. “Are they gone now, the boys?”

  He nodded. “Released.”

  “I thought only murdered people sought you out, not those killed by machines.”

  “Apparently not anymore.”

  “Not since Ghostlight?”

  “Ghostlight changed everything.”

  “How many do you see?”

  “Thousan
ds. Thousands upon thousands.”

  She sighed and he watched her from the corner of his eye. An orb circled before her like a firefly, throwing light across her face. She reached for it.

  “Don’t touch it please,” he said.

  “Why? What are they?”

  “Materia obscura. Dark…matter. I call them orbs.”

  “Orbs.” She frowned as if trying to find a home for the word on her tongue. “But the guests at the Hofburg were screaming.”

  “The lockets open doors or windows into other worlds, yes?”

  She nodded.

  “I think these are Arclight’s doors. Dark doors. Very dark.”

  “What do they lead to?”

  “Moments of death, Miss Savage.” And he shrugged. “No one needs to see that.”

  “Oh…”

  He felt his chest grow tight. His world was far too macabre for such a soul. As fascinated as she was, she could never share it and he hated himself for even entertaining the thought.

  She shifted in the snow. “Have you…”

  “Looked into one?”

  She nodded again.

  “One.”

  “That’s where you were last night.” She looked at him. “So you didn’t kill Prince Rudolf. You saw it.”

  He sighed.

  “You didn’t kill him. Right, Sebastien?”

  “I didn’t kill him. Not directly.”

  She stared at him.

  “I called Arclight and she tried to come. The girl tried to bring her but Rudolf stopped them.”

  “Oh dear…”

  “So,” he cleared his throat. “So, in a way—”

  “No,” she said. “You’re not responsible, Sebastien. You’re not.”

  “That must be why I can’t see him. I’ve never had the dead point a finger at me. Would I see it? How would I help? If I shot myself in the head, it wouldn’t take.”

  She sighed, wrapped her arms around her knees and he felt his heart almost break in two. He wanted her to hold him, tell him it would be alright, kiss his forehead as she had done in the field. But she wasn’t a romantic sort of girl and he was a fool anyway.