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

by H. Leighton Dickson

  “You said the girl tried to bring her.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “So how did she try?”

  He blinked slowly, not following.

  “I mean,” and she made a face as she stared over the fields. “Was she stealing it?

  “I don’t know.”

  “Ghostlight was damnably clever,” she continued. “She would use people to get what she wanted. That’s what made her unnatural and frankly, terrifying. Ghostlight didn’t ‘do’ anything, except make people do everything.”

  “She wanted to come to me.”

  “Exactly. What I’m trying to say is this: If Arclight is like Ghostlight, and Arclight wanted to get to you, then how do it? What did you see?”

  He looked at the snow as he remembered. It was not something he wanted to remember.

  “The girl was wearing it,” he said. “She was leaving him but he grabbed it and they struggled at the top of the stairs. The chain broke and she fell.”

  He reached up to touch his forehead. The blood was still fresh.

  “And she died from the fall, then, yes?”

  “He carried her back up the stair, laid her in bed with a rose…”

  “Hmm. And what about Rudolf? How did he die?”

  “I don’t know,” he lied. “I didn’t want to see anymore.”

  She frowned, looked away and his heart ached at the sight. He should leave now but every minute with her was a gift and he was a greedy man. It was only a matter of time. A dark matter of time.

  He made a fist and the orb disappeared.

  “But the locket,” she murmured, obviously thinking out loud. “It was on the Stahl Mädchen this morning. That’s how you were able to stop the cannons, right? By calling the orbs.”

  “Yes,” he said. “She’s still trying to come to me.”

  She turned to him now, eyes large and shining.

  “But Sebastien, if the girl had the locket last night, how did it end up on a dreadnought over Kolmar this morning?”

  His heart skipped a beat.

  “Who brought her onto the Stahl Mädchen, Sebastien? How did they get her, and why?”

  “How did they get her?” he breathed. His mind was racing now with possibilities.

  “And why?”

  “And why?”

  “There is murder afoot, Sebastien, and if not murder, then most definitely some manner of wickedness and treachery. We need to get to the bottom of it to clear your name. To clear all of our names.”

  He released a deep breath, and then another as he stared into her eyes, so quick, so bright, so full of life. She had done it again, gleaned hope out of ashes, turned everything upside down with the strength of her will. He was a fool for her. Had been since he’d first met her, less than six months ago. A lifetime.

  He so wanted to kiss her.

  “You have saved me once again, Miss Savage.”

  “Ivy,” she said. “I’d be pleased if you called me Ivy, Sebastien.”

  “Ivy,” he said, feeling at the same time both light-headed and heavy. “Ivy.”

  He looked out over the snowy fields. The white horse stood, eyes red as sunset. It shook its mane and arrows were sent flashing into the sky.

  “Whoever has Arclight has the answer,” he said after a moment. “I need to go back.”

  “That’s what I was thinking.”

  “We’ll go to Strasbourg where you will accompany Christien and Castlewaite to Paris. Perhaps check in on that university you were thinking of before crossing the channel to London. I’ll stay on the continent, see what I can suss out.”

  “Sebastien, can you honestly remember a time when I ever did what you said?”

  He looked back at her. She was hugging her knees and grinning a little grin that tugged into one cheek. He wondered what her lips would taste like.

  “Never,” he said.

  “Right. We will go to Strasbourg but Castlewaite will take Christien to Paris. You and I will catch the train to Vienna.”

  He shook his head but the dog wagged happily beside him.

  ***

  Dr. John Williams could see the rooflines of Sandringham in the sights of his rifle as he followed the flight of the pheasant across the sky. The setter had flushed it and now it flew, her wings beating a steep arc over the grounds. He squeezed the trigger ever so gently and immediately relaxed as the recoil butted into his shoulder. The bird’s arc changed dramatically and the setter bounded off into the snow.

  “Capital shot, Jack! She was a fast one, that bird.”

  Williams turned. Big and bearlike, his companion sported a thick beard and upturned moustache. His arm was held straight down at his side, right sleeve buttoned at the shoulder. It was a prosthetic, all metal shafts, copper gears and a cable pulley system that mimicked the movements of both muscle and tendon. At the moment, there was no hand attached to the arm, but rather the barrel of a well-oiled hunting rifle. With an arm like that, it was amazing how well he shot.

  Albert Edward, Prince of Wales. The King with the Clockwork Arm.

  “Indeed, sir,” smiled Williams. “A lucky shot.”

  “Tosh, man. You’re a natural behind the stock.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He lowered his rifle and the two men stood, awaiting the dog that would retrieve the prize. It was not the only prize however. A porter stood nearby, a flush of grouse and two more pheasants hanging from a cob. All in all, it had been a good afternoon.

  A second porter approached holding a tray filled with shot glasses. Both men appropriated one, Williams with his right hand, Edward with his left.

  “And so, have you had any luck with those Peniarth texts, Jack? Last I heard, you were angling to get ‘em.”

  “Alas, that Wynne is a bastard, Bertie. He won’t part with ‘em for any sum.”

  “Tell him it’s for the library on behalf of the Prince of Wales, wot!”

  “The Prince of Wales Library! Capital idea, sir!”

  As the men tossed back the whiskies, the setter returned, dropping the pheasant at their feet. The porter snatched it up, slid it onto the cob.

  “Let’s call it a day, shall we? I like to end on a good note.”

  Wales held out his arm and an automaton approached, groaning on track wheels over the snow. Several rifles protruded from the top, along with several mechanical hands. The porter twisted the rifle extension, popping it off with a click and dropping it into the canister. He carefully selected a forearm with its wondrously designed network of pulleys and began to twist it onto the elbow joint.

  It was a rather ghastly image but over the last few months, Williams had seen much worse.

  He cleared his throat.

  “Ahem, Bertie…”

  “Jackie?”

  “That matter you had asked me to look into…”

  “Ah yes.”

  “I’ve taken care of it, sir.”

  And he reached into his waistcoat pocket, producing a small black pouch.

  Pleasant but sharp, the Prince of Wales narrowed his eyes.

  “That’s it?”

  “It is, sir.”

  “Balderdash! You would have me believe something so powerful could fit in such a tiny bag?”

  “Without the key,” said Williams, “It’s just a locket.”

  Wales dumped the contents of the pouch into his hand, held it up to swing at the end of its chain.

  “What do you boys call it? Gaslight? Spooklight?”

  “Ghostlight, sir. Or the French equivalent.”

  The locket spun sweetly, no flashing colours, no spinning rings.

  “Hmph. Can’t see what all the fuss is about then. Pearls, lockets, trinkets for the bunters. My nephew Willie is swaggering bully, you know that! Insisted I bring this bloody thing to the damned funeral! Franzi doesn’t want us to go but dashitall, Rudy was a friend. Be damned if I’m not going to pay m’respects and all that rot.”

  He glanced up.

  “I say, you weren’
t seen, were you?”

  “Not at all, sir. I slipped in, nicked it from the case and slipped out again. The only one who might suspect is Bookie and he’s as loyal to the Club as you or I.” Williams smiled grimly. “After all, it’s only on loan to the Club, isn’t it? It belongs to the de Lacey family. I was merely the unfortunate recipient after the debacle at the Docks.”

  “Indeed. Indeed. You know that boy is still alive, don’t you?”

  “Sebastien de Lacey? Yes sir, I do know. I keep in touch with Remy from time to time.”

  “How he manages is beyond me. That boy has been dead more times than a cat! One day, he’ll meet himself a bulldog and be done with it all! Ah ha! Ah ha!”

  The Prince of Wales swung around to the porters.

  “Webster, take these birds and roast us up a spread.”

  “Yes sir,” said the porter.

  “Jackie, let’s call us a day,” said Wales. “I’m off for Vienna tomorrow and can’t abide the thought of their sweet wines and bitter coffees. Stay and nosh it up with me. God knows I’ll have no fun once I set foot on Gilded soil.”

  “I would be happy to, Bertie.”

  He raised the locket to his eyes.

  “I can’t wait to see Willie’s face once I pull little Spooklight out of m’pocket. Why, he might just declare war there and then! Imagine that! A European war all on account of a bloody locket! Ah ha! Ah ha!”

  As the pair began the short walk back to Sandringham, Williams could not help but wonder if that wasn’t precisely what the bloody locket had in mind.

  Chapter 10

  Of Archduchesses, Pillars of Angels and the Empire of Blood and Iron

  “Where are we going, you rogue?” asked Penny as she struggled against her bonds.

  “Why, Strasbourg of course,” answered international jewel thief, Alexander Dunn. “It’s wine country. Where else would I take two beautiful women?”

  Penny growled but did not respond. She was trussed like a Christmas ham in the rear seat of his speedster, flying down a country road in Alsace-Lorraine. A woman was seated in front of her, wearing a tiny top hat with an enormous feather, a striped corset and goggles that were as dark as coal. She also had a white powder wig and a rather large mole on her cheek, and had been introduced as Antoine Marionette.

  The woman turned and smiled at her.

  “Penny Dreadful, Girl Criminologist, oui?”

  “I refuse to answer,” said Penny.

  “But of course,” said Antoine, her accent undeniably French. “You are the most celebrated criminologist of all time, oui?”

  “Mais oui,” said Penny, knowing it to be quite true.

  “You think I stole the Star of Morocco, don’t you Penny?” said Alexander from the stick. “But I didn’t.”

  “I say again, you are a rogue, sir. Why should I believe you?”

  “Because it’s true and Penny Dreadful does not rest until she uncovers the truth.”

  She harrumphed but held her chin high, eyes fixed on the road before her.

  “I would have stolen it,” he said. “But the Star of Morocco wasn’t in Vienna.”

  “Of course it was,” she snapped. “I saw it myself.”

  “You saw a copy, a replica.”

  “A forgery,” cooed Antoine.

  “A forgery?” gasped Penny and she looked up, eyes flashing. “But where is the original?”

  Dunn threw a glance over his shoulder at her, grinning like the rogue he was.

  “And that, dear Penny, is why we’re going to Strasbourg. We have a train to catch.”

  She sank back in the seat, bonds tight but mind racing. So if the Villain of Vienna was NOT international jewel thief Alexander Dunn, she thought to herself, who WAS he and why would he frame Dunn? Suddenly, she was very glad she had leapt from the Scarlet Pimpernel and into the speedster, for she was currently on to the road to answers in Strasbourg and the Empire of Blood and Iron.

  ***

  Strasbourg had been a part of the Empire of Blood and Iron since the Franco-Prussian War of the Wire and its historic buildings were being restored with a distinctly Germanic feel. As they floated along the icy River Ill, Ivy could see half-timbered houses beside grey gothic spires, shops selling French wines and German beers. Black banners with golden eagles waved from every post, the clockwork fleur-de-lis from every pillar. Easily a town conflicted, Ivy thought, as if serving two masters.

  She was tired.

  It was twilight when they pulled up near a bridge and a set of stone steps that led to the city’s waterfront. The town centre was an island surrounded by the Ill, much like the Seine surrounded the heart of Paris. They had taken Dr. Schoengaur’s buggy into Kolmar and from there, a wine barge along the river until the very tall spire of Strasbourg cathedral came into view. The bargeman had charged a hefty sum and Ivy began to worry about the depth of Sebastien’s pockets. She wondered what he had lost in the crash and if they could even afford a train to Paris.

  Cold, damp and bone-tired, she was glad to set foot on solid ground once again, even if it was to trudge up the stone steps from the canal to the quay. It was dark but the snow had stopped and the gaslight burned on streetlamps all along the bridge. Below her, the bargeman was speaking in German as Castlewaite and the de Lacey brothers followed her up the stair.

  “Damn,” muttered Christien. “Apparently, we’ve missed the six o’clock train.”

  His face was purple now and his breathing laboured from the bruised ribs. But the doctor had worked a miracle, finding an iron-monger able to fix the metal brace and a tonic to shrink the swelling. The prosthetic would make an odd clicking sound from time to time. He looked miserable and Ivy was certain he felt even worse, but he was alive and moving and she was grateful for that.

  “The fellow says there’s one at half-past midnight,” said Sebastien. “We’ll take a meal in town and head out tonight.”

  The bargeman pressed a sheet of paper into the Mad Lord’s hands.

  “Fahrplan,” he said.

  “Train schedule,” said Sebastien, handing it to Castlewaite.

  “Und Bahnhof Straßburg,” the bargeman said. “Station. Train station.”

  And he pointed down the street to a distant building, bright with gaslight.

  “Good lord,” said Christien. “Are those airships?”

  Above the station, shapes floated like bloated dragons against a darkening sky. There was a fleet of them in close mooring but one easily dwarfed them all.

  “The Stahl Mädchen,” breathed Ivy. “Why is she here?”

  “Stahl Mädchen, ja,” said the bargeman, heading back down the steps to the river. “Kaiser Wilhelm ist auch hier. Es ist sein Geburtstag Besichtigung.”

  The brothers glanced at each other.

  “What?” said Ivy. “What is it?”

  “We’re all dead,” said Christien. He turned and trudged off across the bridge toward the centre of town. He was a silhouette in moments.

  Castlewaite looked between them, copper eyepiece clicking in the gaslight.

  “Sebastien?” Ivy prodded.

  The Mad Lord shoved his hands into the pockets of his great coat.

  “Apparently, Kaiser Wilhelm is doing a tour of the Empire of Blood and Iron for his birthday. He’s here, in Strasbourg.”

  She narrowed her eyes, straining to catch a glimpse of the canvases hovering over the station. A single black eagle crowned in gold.

  “Two Imperial airships here at the same time. That’s hardly a co-incidence, is it?”

  Sebastien made a face. She swallowed, fighting the knot in her chest.

  “Did he know Rudolf? I mean, they were having a celebration for his birthday, weren’t they? That’s why we went to Vienna. I would imagine all European royalty would all know each other somehow or another, right?”

  “I would imagine.”

  “Do you think he’s here because of the sisters?”

  “Not at all. Well, unlikely. Quite probably, actually. Christie
n is right. We might all be dead before the night is through.”

  From the far end of the bridge came a rumble like distant thunder and Ivy’s breath caught in her throat. She turned to see a shape flashing between the gas lamps, a familiar red beam sweeping the ground as it rolled toward them onto the bridge. Ivy felt a wave of cold wash down her body.

  It was a Sentinel but instead of legs, it was moving on a carriage of track wheels that shrieked and groaned like grinding gears. In a strange disconnect of thought, she remembered reading that the Empire of Steam was using track wheels to enable iron-clads travel over land. Track-Armoured-Naval-Carriers they were being called, or TANCs, but never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined those track-wheels carrying a Sentinel. Her knees began to tremble and she wondered how long they would hold.

  She barely felt it as Sebastien pulled her out of the way and the three of them stood with backs against the stone as the Sentinel rolled across the bridge. It was huge, the tracks as high as a man and Ivy could feel the cobblestones rumble under her boots. It squealed to a halt when it reached them, it’s tiny helm swiveling and the red eye flashed across their faces.

  She wanted to run. She wanted to scream. She wanted to wake up from this nightmare with its inhuman gaze and terrible power, but she was trapped on a bridge and her legs wouldn’t move. She had never been so terrified in her life.

  “Heil Kaiser Wilhelm,” said Sebastien. “Geburtstagsgrüße von Kolmar.”

  And he smiled like the sun.

  For several long agonizing moments, Ivy simply forgot to breathe.

  Finally, the helm returned forward and the Sentinel rumbled its way across the bridge.

  “Well,” said Sebastien. “That was unexpected.”

  Ivy sagged back against the stone, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

  “Let’s go find lodging, shall we? I’m famished and perhaps we could catch forty winks.”

  And he turned to follow his brother, leaving her on the bridge with Castlewaite. He looked at her, eyepiece clicking twice.