Guillouet continued, “Mr. Hassan, if you’ve passed on this opportunity to collect the reward, I hope you’ll forgive the small delay as I allow my crew to try?”
“Yes, but I counsel against it.”
“And pass up a possible fifty livre reward?” Guillouet smiled. “If I split it equally between my men, that’s two each. That’s more than they make in a year. I believe they’ll take that risk.”
Several of the aviators nodded, eyes widening at the mention of such a sum. Yasmeen’s mouth tightened.
Guillouet turned to the marine. “Mr. Bigor, please lead your men down. Be quick, before you lose the light.”
“Yes, sir.” Bigor jerked his head at his men, and they moved in step to the rope ladder.
Anger was one of the few emotions that Archimedes never deliberately stoked, and he was slow to rise to a temper. But it could happen, now and again.
“Mr. Bigor, a moment!” he called out. When the man paused at the side of the ship, Archimedes joined him and said, “Have you encountered many zombies before?”
The man gave a stiff nod, eyes hard. “A few.”
Only a few? Archimedes wasn’t surprised. The four men were skilled, no doubt, though he’d have wagered they hadn’t been long on this side of the Atlantic.
A moan sounded from below, barely audible above the creak of the ship and the flap of canvas. But of course there was—Archimedes had just yelled the man’s name, hadn’t he? And no one had called him an idiot.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Yasmeen lean over the side and scan the tree line. Apparently she’d been listening for the moan, too.
“Then you probably know to destroy the brain, or take off the head,” Archimedes said. “But there’s more to know.”
He drew his revolver. The other man tensed, but Archimedes was already turning away from him, looking toward the harvester. He tipped the bullets out of the chamber. Picking up one, he flung it at the machine. The bullet struck the top with a faint ping!
“They’re fast,” he said as one burst from the shadows and raced across the clearing, hissing. With matted hair and sunken features, the zombie was too emaciated and filthy to determine gender—or perhaps all indications had been eaten or rotted off.
Many of the aviators recoiled in instinctive repulsion. Bigor didn’t flinch. He raised his hand, stopping his comrade when the other marine aimed his rifle.
“They’ll investigate any noise.” Archimedes threw another bullet. Ping! The zombie was growling now, a rasping, ravenous sound. “And if they encounter a structure, they’ll search for a way in.”
The zombie disappeared around the side. Archimedes waited.
The explosion rocked the harvester back, flipping the shredder’s tail up like a scorpion readying to strike. Metal shrieked. Smoke boiled from the top hatch.
“And that’s all there is to know.” Archimedes clapped the man on the back. “You can go down and look for the Dame and Evans now, Mr. Bigor, but you’d best hurry. I can already hear more of them coming.”
Yasmeen wouldn’t have handled that half as well. Too used to giving orders, she’d have insisted that Guillouet retract the order he’d given the marines, and probably would have ended up shooting someone—or at least throwing punches. She’d never have considered throwing bullets.
She followed Archimedes down the ladder from the main deck, and was halfway to their cabin before she realized that he was furious. He stalked into the small room, throwing his hat and coat over his bunk. Two paces brought him to the washstand. He whipped around, almost paced into her.
Taking a quick step back, she flattened her hand against his solid chest. His heart pounded. His jaw had set like stone, his emerald eyes were bright. Her breath seemed to slip away. Oh, he was magnificent when roused. She could have looked at him for hours, but she settled for the time it took to breathe again.
“You’re an impressive specimen of a man, Mr. Fox,” she finally said.
His gaze narrowed, fell to her lips. The pace of his heart quickened. Then he all but wrecked her when he stroked the back of his fingers down her cheek.
Pleasure streaked through her, the urge to lift into his touch and purr. She contained her shudder, remained still as he covered her hand with his, holding it to his chest. His eyes closed, and she was never more grateful for a moment alone.
She pressed the tips of her fingers to her cheek, steadied herself. He didn’t even know what he’d done to her—and how rarely she felt a sweet touch that asked for absolutely nothing. Swallowing, she said, “You averted that disaster up there perfectly. Of course, Guillouet will hate you now, too.”
“It can’t be helped. He’s a shit captain.” He expelled a hard sigh. “It’s not just that he’s a sailor.”
Perhaps not. There were many reasons that men unsuitable to be captains were put in the position. “Well, I’m beginning to believe I was wrong about why the French cut him from their ranks. It’s not because of ancestry or money at all. He’s a blind ass.”
A smile finally lifted the corners of his handsome mouth. His eyes opened—not angry now, but not amused either. He regarded her thoughtfully. “There are few things my father said that I’ve ever agreed with, but one of them was: There are men who give orders, and men who take them. Captains, they often seem like they give them, but there’s always a superior officer somewhere that he answers to, and an admiral that answers to a king or a parliament, who answer to their people. But a man making his living out here—or a mercenary—answers to no one. So a man fit to be captain in a war might not be fit to captain his own ship, because there’s no one thinking for him anymore and telling him what to do, how to act.”
Though Yasmeen didn’t disagree, she couldn’t help but be amused. “I remember this from a sermon. I believe your father’s point was that we are all deceived about our place, and we all take orders from God.”
He grinned. “I just take the bits I want to.”
“And what are you, Mr. Fox?” Yasmeen knew what she was. “Do you give orders, or take them?”
“I’m the type to get the damn job done myself.” He lifted her hand, pressed a warm kiss to the backs of her fingers. “Now, let’s find out where this job is taking us.”
Chapter Eight
Featuring a private privy and wardrobe, a writing desk and a berth that was wider than a plank, Hassan’s stateroom was larger than their cabin by far. A small table allowed him to eat in privacy, if he preferred—now, it was spread with a large map. Hassan settled into the table’s cushioned chair, quietly sipping his tea and leaving Yasmeen and Archimedes to discuss their route with Ollivier, who didn’t speak Arabic. On the desk, Ollivier had piled several books, sheaves of notes, and old maps.
The first city he pointed to made Archimedes groan. “No,” he said. “Vienna is picked clean. I myself have been there seven times, a total of four months on the ground. There’s simply nothing left.”
Yasmeen said, “All of the men I’ve carried there have said the same. There’s nothing to be found. It’s been abandoned the longest, so it’s been picked over the longest.”
“I am not interested in Vienna, but just outside of it. I had opportunity to study Prince Albert the Fair’s archives,” Ollivier said, as if in explanation. “His many-times great-grandmother was one of the Fleeing Hapsburgs.”
A member of the ruling family in Vienna and the surrounding principalities during the Horde’s advancement into Europe, the Hapsburgs had fought to the bitter end—and in the New World, were as celebrated as da Vinci. But a few of the Hapsburg family had fled; they had not been looked upon kindly, and were often portrayed as villains and cowards in the theatrical plays and histories.
From beneath his notes, Ollivier brought forth a colored woodcut print protected beneath a glass plate. Faded greens and browns depicted rolling hills behind a walled city, with a river and swimming swans in the foreground. The peaked roofs of the city were all in orange and blue, and the buildings stood tall, w
ith several ornate spires reaching into the pale sky.
“The old man was the last of his line before his demise, so I was able to acquire this woodcut from his collection, which is a faithful reproduction of a painting made by the Hapsburg grandmother.”
Yasmeen looked up at Archimedes. No doubt “acquiring” meant stealing after he’d poisoned the man. Lovely.
Ollivier continued, “Her painting of the city was the latest one that I’ve seen created by someone actually in Vienna. Many others are based upon older artworks or drawn from memory. Do you see this?” He pointed to a stout stone structure in the background, almost hidden in the rolling hills. “I’ve never seen it in any other depiction.”
Eyes narrowing, Archimedes leaned close to study the woodcut. “That’s true. I haven’t seen it before, either. But I also haven’t seen anything like this ruin when I was in the city.”
“But it is up in the hills, do you see? If the forest had grown up around it, the view might have been obstructed.”
Archimedes nodded. “All right. What do you think it is?”
The assassin hauled out another map of Vienna and the surrounding area. “A possible place to build the clockwork army. Its position is perfect: near enough to the Hapsburg Wall that if the Horde were to break through, the soldiers would be readily available to stop them—but also far enough away to allow time to mount a defense.”
“The Hapsburgs had da Vinci’s machines on this side of the wall.”
“But they were created to defend the wall and to halt the Horde’s machines, not to stop troops of mounted soldiers from coming through. A clockwork army could slow them.”
Though clearly doubtful of that possibility, Archimedes peered at the woodcut again, asking Ollivier about dates, verifying the history of the piece. Yasmeen only half-listened, watching him, admiring the line of his jaw, his careful study of the items Ollivier had brought. She’d never given much thought to how he’d prepared for his adventures, but he’d obviously done something similar to this: poring over old maps, reading through letters, comparing different accounts of the Horde advance and Europe’s retreat.
Finally, he nodded. “Clockwork army or not, if the structure was newly built before the zombie infection came through the city, then it’s worth looking for—and hopefully it was built solid enough that it’s more than a pile of rubble.”
Ollivier beamed. Encouraged, he selected more maps. “If we find nothing there, our next location is Brenner’s Pass.”
Brenner’s Pass? Yasmeen shook her head. She easily found the pass on Ollivier’s map. She placed her finger directly beside it. “There is a Horde outpost right here.”
“And that only supports my theory. This has long been recorded as an important pass. If the Horde broke through the wall, they would have needed to come through the pass to the Italian peninsula. And we know from the letters of generals and merchants that there were supplies being sent up to the pass, along with engineers and laborers. They were building something there.”
“Da Vinci’s machines,” Archimedes said.
“Those, too. But even if we do not find the clockwork soldiers, this location isn’t picked over. We’ll find something in the fortress they constructed there. And in the deep snow, the zombies won’t be such a threat.”
Archimedes gave him a long, unreadable look before glancing at Yasmeen. She grinned, showing him the tip of her tongue caught between her teeth. His shoulders shook in a silent laugh, and the exaggerated lift of his brows said he was astonished that she’d managed to remain silent.
Ollivier might know his way around a map, but he clearly hadn’t spent any time on the ground. Although severe cold could freeze a zombie, it didn’t kill them, and they were mobile again as soon as they thawed. A very cold zombie was sluggish; because of that, many people thought that if one of the creatures was surrounded by snow, it posed less of a threat. But the worst danger came from deep snow, with zombies under it, and not quite cold enough to slow them down.
“What of the outpost?” Yasmeen said. “If Ceres is spotted, the Horde will come and look.”
“We could hike in to the fortress or drop in on gliders at night, and arrange for pickup after a few days,” Archimedes said. “As long as Ceres doesn’t hover during the day, it won’t draw attention to us.”
Ollivier nodded, and seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. “From there we move around the Adriatic Sea,” he said. “I’ve picked out a few locations to search, all based on their tactical position.”
Archimedes frowned. “Tactical position for what?”
“You recall the fragment of the correspondence between da Vinci and Luca Pacioli? They were discussing Hannibal marching on Rome.”
Shaking his head, Archimedes said, “Rome has been picked through like Vienna. The Church has been sending salvagers for hundreds of years.”
“Oh, no—I was thinking not of Rome itself, but the strategy. The Hapsburg Wall had already been constructed. If da Vinci and the generals wanted to send an army east, they’d have to get over their own wall first. But if they go about it as Hannibal did, and come from an unexpected direction . . .” He pointed to the boot of the Italian peninsula. “Launching from here, perhaps, and attacking the Horde from the south. And they’d have kept it quiet, so that the Horde wouldn’t know they were coming.”
Again, Archimedes didn’t appear convinced, but he nodded. “All right. It’s worth a look. May I study your notes?”
Obviously pleased by the request, Ollivier nodded and began gathering his papers. “Yes, of course. Let me put them in order, and I will have them brought to you.”
Arms full, he left the stateroom. Archimedes looked to Hassan. “He knows what he’s about. He has unique sources. He’s put the information together in unusual ways, but it’s good information.”
“Good. We’ll be in Vienna tomorrow morning; you can start your work then, God willing.” With effort, the older man stood, his heavy breath resonating deeply in his chest. “Forgive me. I’d hoped to have more opportunity to sit with you before I joined the captain for dinner, but the business with the reward has cut into that time. Perhaps tomorrow, you will take the midday meal here with me.”
“We will,” Archimedes said.
Hassan’s gaze moved to Yasmeen, then to the kerchief over her hair. Though the tips of her ears were concealed beneath the blue silk, she had no doubt that he’d recognized what she was.
He smiled faintly. “You are a surprise to me, Captain Fox. I am tempted to throw diplomacy away and miss dinner in the captain’s cabin simply so that I can discover more about you.”
Miss the captain’s dinner the first night aboard Ceres, after he’d brought an insult to the captain aboard, and allowed Archimedes to destroy a possible hundred-livre reward? “You flatter me,” she said. “But you are too wise to be tempted at all.”
Hassan’s smile broadened. “There are times I wish I could be the fool—especially when I face a night spent soothing ruffled feathers.”
“It is too late. I have taken the part of the fool,” Archimedes said, coming around the table and sliding his hand into hers. “I have already succumbed to temptation and will spend the night basking in her presence. Come, my wife. A fine meal awaits us.”
It had been some time since Yasmeen had eaten with an aviator crew, but the messes on an airship’s berth deck were all the same. Long tables ran down the center of the deck. Benches on either side provided seats. Farther aft, beyond a set of paneled partitions that provided little privacy, rows of bunks lined the sides of the deck.
Silence fell when Archimedes and Yasmeen climbed down the ladder, though the aviators must have known they were coming; word of the altercation with Guillouet as they’d boarded would have swept through the crew before she and Archimedes had settled in their cabin. Eighteen men sat at the table—only the deck crew on watch was missing. She saw curiosity, irritation, a refusal to meet her eyes. All right. She wasn’t sure whether each of those reactions w
as because she was a woman or because she was Captain Corsair, but she’d figure it out soon enough.
But whether these men considered themselves her enemy, it was always best not to make an enemy of a cook. Though the stew slopped onto her tin plate wouldn’t have been fed to her crew, Yasmeen smiled and said thank you.
Archimedes walked with her to the table. She’d already told him who to sit by, if possible—the first mate had influence over the other aviators, and they’d already made his acquaintance. With his charming grin in place, Archimedes stopped beside the big man with the bruise over his eye.
“Last night, I thought you hit me so hard I saw double. Now I know it’s not true.”
The first mate laughed and made room on the bench. Across from him, his twin did the same. “I wish I’d known I was fighting Archimedes Fox. I’d have shined my knuckles up a bit.”
Yasmeen took the seat next to him as Archimedes rounded the table. The first mate glanced at her, but though she’d taken twice as many men down in the brawl, he didn’t invite her into the joke as he had Archimedes. That was all right. They didn’t have to feel comfortable with her. She was here to observe and listen, not to make friends.
She picked up a powder biscuit, broke it in half, and stared. It was wormy.
The mutter came from farther down the table. “Captain thinks she’s too good for us.”
No, worms didn’t bother her—she simply didn’t understand why an airship carried infested supplies. Unlike a ship that spent weeks between ports, an airship could refill their stores easily.
She bit off a chunk, searching for any unusual flavors. The barley and salted-beef stew had already begun to congeal. The watered-down grog tasted like shit, but it was all safe to eat—and all from the same source. She met Archimedes’ eyes, gave a small nod.
A thin aviator on Archimedes’ right cleared his throat. “I was sorry to hear about Lady Corsair, Captain. A fine ship, she was. It was always a pleasure to see her fly.”
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