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

by H. Leighton Dickson

  He reached forward, touched the rounded knub of a femur and a scattering of rubble lit up across the floor. All bits of the same man, remnants of the plague hundreds of years earlier. He knew. He could see it as plain as he would a tree or a church. Catacombs and burial pits rabbiting the city, foundations of bone and skulls and death. Flames leapt in his left hand, snowflakes in his right and the bones began to glow.

  “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti,” he said. “Et nunc absolvo vos.”

  With a rush of fire and ash, the bones disappeared, leaving only small pits where they had set.

  He closed his eyes, laid both palms flat against the rough surface and prayed. The wall began to radiate like a furnace before disintegrating and the earth roared all around him and dust rained down from above. Earth shake, earthquake. Ash, soot and dust. This was his air now. His lungs would need little else before stopping entirely.

  No, life never did quite fit.

  Little Sophie smiled at him, folded up on herself and blew away with the ash and dust. But now, the tunnel continued where the wall had been. It was darker than dark and out of the darkness, the orb spun – slowly, sinisterly, hovering just above the stone floor and out of his reach. Arclight was calling.

  With a deep breath of ash and dust, he set off to follow.

  ***

  The carriage lurched to a halt, and a Silver Hussar held the door, propped an umbrella as Valerie stepped out onto the cold, wet street. Christien moved to follow but there was a sound like distant thunder and the ground rumbled beneath his shoes. Mourners in the square looked around, faces blank but they did not scream, did not run, did not even move. Panic, it seemed, was not an Austrian thing.

  Valerie, however, clutched her umbrella just a little tighter.

  “Earthquake?” he asked.

  “Vienna never has earthquakes,” she mumbled.

  “It is a judgment of God,” said Gisela. “One of the plagues because He is angry over Rudolf’s death.”

  “The food is going bad,” said Valerie. “There was no cheese or cake at Franz’s palais.”

  “Earthquakes and famine,” said Gisela. “The plagues are upon us.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Christien. “It’s not God. It’s Bastien. He’ll bring your city to its knees.”

  “Then we will kill him.”

  “Doesn’t take.”

  From inside the carriage, Gisela grabbed his clockwork arm and pulled him back with surprising force. She remained dry inside the cab while the drizzle fell on him like a cold lover.

  “Then you see why this must work,” she hissed. “Rudolf must be revived for balance to be restored. Otherwise, there will be a war and the entire world will burn.”

  “You are putting your faith in the wrong man.”

  “We put our faith in God.”

  “Then ask him to do your dirty work.”

  “Nein!” barked Valerie, halting the fist that was swinging toward his face. Gisela growled, relaxed her hand, released first a deep breath, then his arm.

  “You will meet at the Chapel tonight at midnight,” she said. “You will have both the heart and the viscera.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “You will die. If you get the wrong person’s organs and Rudolf doesn’t rise, you will die. If you only get the heart and not the organs, or the organs and not the heart, you will die.”

  “I presume these viscera are under guard?”

  “Of course. They are Holy Roman relics.”

  “And how am I to pinch them?”

  “Valerie says you are clever. You will think of something.”

  “And if I do manage to locate and retrieve his Most Royal Viscera, put them all back in and stitch him all proper, what if, at the end of it all, my brother doesn’t show?”

  “Simple. You will die.”

  “If the alternative is war and death, then I’m dead anyway. Why not just go have a pint at a local Heurigen and wait for it in drunken stupor?”

  “Because despite your cynicism and debauchery, Christien de Lacey, you still hope for something better. Hope is a obstinate thing to kill.”

  She looked at her sister.

  “Do not fail. Maman is trusting us.”

  “We will not fail,” said Valerie.

  Gisela disappeared back into the cab and the coach sped away, leaving them in the middle of throngs of mourners. Black-clad and blank-faced, people pushed their way into the square on their way to the Hofburg, not even noticing the sister of the man they were coming to mourn.

  The Archduchess turned to him, the umbrella keeping the rain from her head. He, on the other hand, was soaked to the bone and he rubbed his arms, trying to get the feeling into them. It was pointless. The clockwork arm felt nothing.

  “What about surgical instruments? Am I to loot a hospital as well?”

  “Maman has arranged for those.”

  “And Papa?” he asked. “What part is he playing?”

  “You know nothing,” she said. “Papa is occupied with funerary protocols. Rudolf’s is a state funeral of historic, religious and international importance. Besides, Papa is still Emperor. He first concern is the ongoing stability of the Gilded Empire. It is an enormous responsibility.”

  “And here we are, about to sabotage all that hard work.”

  She scowled but did not strike. They turned, began walking eastward.

  “So where is this church?” he sputtered. The rain had slicked his hair onto his forehead. He didn’t care to push it off.

  She pointed to a Gothic spire, towering over the square like a fist raised to heaven. It was grey and gruesome, with grinning gargoyles and gravestones embedded in the façade.

  “Stephansdom,” she said. “The largest, most beautiful cathedral in all the city.”

  “Do they do ritual executions as well? It smells like an abattoir.”

  Down the street, a butcher was tossing his wares out onto the walk and the mourning crowd was giving it a wide berth. Sides of beef, slabs of pork, sausage coils and piles of veal, blood running between the cobbles like a spring river.

  “That is Kirchmann’s,” said Valerie, covering her nose with a handkerchief. “Something is wrong with his coolers?”

  “It’s your curse, remember?” He watched as the butcher tossed another coil of moldy meat on to the road. “Do you have any money?”

  “Me? Money?”

  “Do you?”

  “No. I never carry money. It is vulgar.”

  “Bloody hell,” he groaned. “Well, let the games begin.”

  And he grabbed her hand and dragged her toward the shop.

  ***

  The floor of the Grand Hotel shuddered as if with thunder, and the gaslights flickered in the room.

  “That’s the second earthquake this morning!” boomed Edward, Prince of Wales. “I should’ve known Sebastien de Lacey would be in this thick! Ah ha! Ah ha!”

  The Crown Prince of Steam stepped toward them, smiling from ear to ear. Wilhelm released her wrist and Ivy curtsied, long and low. Slinking into the room, Countess Marie Larisch scowled at her. Her eye was blackened like a schoolboy and Ivy felt an odd rush of pride that she had caused it.

  Pride, she thought. It would be the death of her. Odd. She’d always thought it would have been her tongue.

  “Your little spy was telling me everything,” said Wilhelm. “She has become almost English. Her accent is quite convincing.”

  “This is not my little spy, Willie,” the Prince said. “But she’s bloody well clever enough. Impersonating Mary Vetsera. Brilliant, m’dear. Bloody brilliant.”

  “What?” bellowed the Kaiser. “This is Mary Vetsera! You said so!”

  “I was told Vetsera was here by the guard at the door, Willie, but I can assure you that this is not Mary Vetsera.”

  He towered over her now and she dared not look up. Rather, she kept her eyes fixed on the floor, tried to calm her heart. It was racing like wild horses.

 
“It is not Mary Vetsera,” hissed the Countess. “She is the French Anarchist’s woman! She has letters belonging to me!”

  Eyes on the floor. Eyes on the floor.

  “Rather, I think,” said the Prince. “Letters belonging to me?”

  And he lifted her chin so there was nowhere else to look but his face, his big, bushy, bear of a face.

  “You look like you’ve had a time of it, eh wot, little Cymry? As wild as I remember. How’s the ankle?”

  The tears were stinging yet again and her throat had grown tight. She was so very tired.

  “Fine, Your Most Royal Highness,” she managed. “Healed up right quick, it did.”

  “How about a cup of tea? You’ll have to make due with honey and lemon, mind. Apparently, there’s been a spot of trouble with the milk.”

  She nodded. Her words had fled.

  “Right then,” and he turned to the Countess. “Marie, be a love and ring for some tea. Better yet, go back to your apartments and fetch some yourself. Clean up a bit while you’re at it. You look worse than this child.”

  He glanced back at Ivy.

  “She lives here. Did you know that? That’s how we met, over cocktails in the terrace, what, seven years ago?”

  “Six,” growled Marie and Ivy thought that, right now, she was more black cat than swan.

  Wales turned and stared at the woman, intelligent eyes shining, the smile fixed on his wooly face. If he’d had his cane, he’d be thumping it firmly on the floor. Once, twice, three times.

  “It’s not my fault,” Marie moaned. “I’ll lose everything.”

  “Damnable inconvenient, life,” he said.

  With a snort, the Countess whirled and left the salon. He turned his bearlike gaze on his young nephew.

  “Bismark wants you, Willie,” he said. “Apparently, Franzi doesn’t see your Ironmen as a tribute and has forbidden you from the funeral.”

  “What? He can’t do that!”

  “Taaffe is here now. Gisela is on her way.”

  The Kaiser unleashed a string of German that Ivy knew was not poetry. He stormed from the salon, but paused with one hand on the door.

  “Archelicht is mine, Uncle. Three lockets, three Empires. That was the deal.”

  And he slammed the door so that the paintings rattled in their frames.

  Wales looked down at her once again.

  “Let’s sit, shall we? The world is about to go to war over these bloody lockets and I for one, could use some answers.”

  He slipped a hand into his pocket and what looked like icing sugar fell to the floor. He pulled out a pendant, held it up with two fingers.

  “For example, why the bloody hell is m’pocket filled with snow?”

  At the end of her serpentine chain, the locket Ghostlight glittered and danced like a star.

  Chapter 22

  Of Lemon Tea, Moldy Sausages and Black Death at the End of the World

  Dunn had been right. It was a tight squeeze.

  She had stripped down to corset, breeches and little else to fit into the Grand’s dumbwaiter. Antoine Marionette had rewired the cables so that she was sent down the shaft to Maximilian’s room, where she was to wait until the Crown Prince answered the door. But it had been several minutes now and she could hear him still reading the lines of a speech to himself. It was hot inside the metal box and her legs were beginning to cramp. She wondered what explanation might best suit her in the event she broke out of confinement and into his room.

  Given her attire, that shouldn’t prove too difficult.

  But there, she heard a knock on the Prince’s door, heard him cross the floor to answer. Heard the voice of Alexandre Gavriel St. Jacques in his Lord Durand persona and she had to give him credit. Surely, no one would suspect him if the Prince truly did have the Star of Morocco and if it went missing from his room. He was a smooth one, that rascal Dunn.

  “Yes, by George,” she heard the Prince say. “I could use a stiff whiskey and a plate of fois gras.”

  “Le Ciel has agreed to open for an exclusive after-hours tête à tête,” said Dunn. “It is Vienna’s premiere hotel for a reason.”

  “Indeed!” laughed the Crown Prince and together the two gentlemen left the room. Penny waited until she heard the twist of the skeleton key before sliding the dumbwaiter’s door up and dropping in an unladylike heap to the floor.

  Quickly she bounced to her bare feet, slapped the cobwebs from her knees and drew what looked to be an Oriental fan from her corset. With a twist and a snap, it became a magnifying lens and Penny Dreadful, Girl Criminologist, got down to work.

  ***

  Tea with lemon was not her choice but apparently, there was a problem with the milk in the Grand Hotel. Didn’t matter. For Ivy, she was simply grateful that her hands had stopped shaking and that both Wilhelm and Marie had left the room.

  “I didn’t believe the press. French anarchists, indeed. No bloody anarchist is going to kill a Habsburg. They’re too wiley for that! Ah ha! Ah ha!”

  She tried to smile. His affable manner put most at ease, but here, with Ghostlight sitting on the coffee table in front of her, it was little more than a well-practiced show.

  He noticed and sank back in his wing chair, raising the teacup to his moustache.

  “Now, little Cymry, don’t tell me that was the Chevalier that plumb crashed in Reichsland, wot? That was one damned fine airship.”

  “We were shot down, sir,” she said. “They thought Sebastien had something to do with Rudolf’s death.”

  “And did he?” Those eyes, so kind, so cunning. “After all, he does have a penchant for shooting folk in the head, wot?”

  “He wanted the locket, true enough, but he didn’t kill either of them. You remember what Ghostlight did to Christien. It’s not much of a stretch to believe Arclight can do the same to someone else, if not more.”

  “Sticky business, these lockets.”

  And he sipped his tea, made a face, set the cup back into its saucer.

  “Can’t abide m’tea without a spot of milk, wot? So where is he then, our Laury boy?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I left him with Christien in Franz Salvator’s palais.”

  “And when was that?”

  “Last night, I think. Yes, last night. He was hiding from horses.”

  “What’s that? Horses? That boy loves his horses! Why, no one loves horses as much as our Laury!”

  “Not these horses, sir.” She set down her teacup. “They’re ghost horses.”

  “Egad. That boy does get himself into some pretty pickles.”

  “He does indeed, sir.”

  She glanced down the locket, her rings flashing merry colours and spinning a pile of fresh snow on the table. She had nothing to lose. Even her heart was weary of beating.

  “If you don’t mind me asking…”

  “What’s that, little Cymry?”

  “How did you get it? The locket, I mean. Last I saw, she was lost in the Thames after the cataclysm at St. Katharine’s Docks.”

  He reached down to gather the Vetsera letters in his hands, straightened them, shuffled them, straightened them again, placed them in a neat stack on the table. Next to the snow.

  “Sir?”

  “Jack Williams gave her to me,” he said finally. “Says he got her sent to him along with an old Frenchie book and a human heart.”

  “A heart?” She remembered the cold sticky feel in her hands.

  “Indeed. So he gave the damned thing over to the Club for safe keeping.”

  “But it doesn’t belong to the Club, sir. It belongs to Sebastien de Lacey.”

  “And Sebastien de Lacey belongs to the Crown and the Crown funds the Club.”

  He lifted his clockwork arm, tapped the elbow and a cigarette popped out. She was surprised he’d lasted so long.

  “Come now, little Cymry, don’t act so shocked. The world is governed by politics. Men understand this quite well. That’s why there are so blessedly few women in charge, wot?
”

  “I’d say your mother has done rather well, sir.”

  “Dear old mummie. She’s a horse of a different colour, she is.”

  She set her cup down next to the locket, heat from the cup causing snow to melt into little puddles on the table. The letters were sitting next to it, each of them stamped in black wax.

  “What did Kaiser Wilhelm mean, sir? He said ‘Three lockets, three Empires. That was the deal.’”

  His intelligent eyes bored into her as he inhaled a deep breath, held it for a long moment before releasing it in a long, white stream.

  “Times change, little Cymry. Governments change. Allegiances are only as good as the weakest link. The Habsburg locket was, shall we say, a well-known secret among us. Franzi had it but never flaunted it. Flaunting is apparently not the Gilded way, wot? But after the docks…”

  He lifted the cigarette to his lips, blew the smoke out the side of his mouth.

  “After the docks, there was no hiding the fact that there were more.”

  She held her breath, wondering how much he knew.

  “More, sir?”

  “Three, to my knowledge,” he said. “Although where the third one is, no one knows. If that Czech madman, Frankow knows, by jove he ain’t telling.”

  She sighed, grateful for that small fact.

  “So then, if you agreed that Blood and Iron should get Arclight, why would you hire Mary Vetsera to steal it?”

  “Hold on to your knickers now, little Cymry. I never said Blood and Iron should get her. That’s Willie - all bombast and swagger. Oh no, no, no. I never said that at all.”

  He flicked ash onto the carpet and leaned forward, eyes dancing.

  “I hired Mary Vetsera to steal it, for me.”

  ***

  “That smells disgusting,” grumbled Valerie. “You should have found a better sack.”

  “We could use your skirts,” he said.