Heart of Steel

by Meljean Brook

  “I’m not disappointed,” he said.

  He was terrified.

  Unsurprisingly, the airship’s galley provided Hassan’s table with marginally better food and the luxury of wine—which, Yasmeen noted, Hassan didn’t touch. Conversation was subdued. She and Archimedes barely mentioned the morning’s adventure, though she knew if there’d been any other outcome with Durand, neither one of them could have resisted upstaging the other.

  Instead, she refilled her wine and listened as Archimedes told Hassan of an island in Venice that had been used in the same way as the keep, then of another island on the Seine. He mentioned dates and names with no effort, no pausing to recall details—as if history were as familiar as his own family.

  In the serial adventures, Archimedes Fox never studied. He never sought mysteries; they simply fell into his lap. But in truth, Archimedes Fox was a scholar with a gun, a grapnel, and a need to fling himself into danger.

  That made the real man infinitely more fascinating.

  Not to Hassan, however—or because he’d known the real man for longer. And though he was subtle, steering the discussion to Venice and Archimedes’ recent journey aboard Lady Corsair, she could see that his route would take him to her. Archimedes must have seen it as well, and—perhaps protecting her from questions she might not want to answer—not-so-subtly turned the conversation back around. Amused, Yasmeen watched their back-and-forth until she sensed a hint of frustration in Archimedes’ reply. Their maneuverings had been entertaining, but not worth hard feelings.

  At a pause in their exchange, Yasmeen met Hassan’s eyes and said, “I won’t think it rude if you ask.”

  The man colored slightly. Archimedes lifted his wine to her.

  “Then tell us all, my wife.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him, but Hassan didn’t waste any time. Shaking his head, he said, “Not all, please. I merely wondered if you were from the same house as Nasrin.”

  Nasrin, the wild rose. “Temür Agha’s guard?” she guessed.

  Hassan nodded. Archimedes had gone utterly still, his gaze fixed on her face as if not to miss a word. Because she’d mentioned the guard, or because he was learning more about her, information that didn’t come from stories or rumors?

  The idiot. If he wanted to know, he only had to say so. She would tell him.

  Not here, however. No, there was another story that she wanted to hear, and it wasn’t her own. She needed a full picture of the man who might be responsible for the death of her crew, not rumors and stories. She wanted to hear it from a man who knew him.

  “I knew of several gan tsetseg by that name,” she said, “but there are also many I don’t know. I was raised in Constantinople.”

  “It is unlikely you know her, then. Nasrin was from the Pun-jaab, but was raised by the house in Daidu.” Then, in a careful tone, “Constantinople?”

  “Yes.” She held his gaze. “I escaped while Temür Agha razed the city.”

  He gave a deep, resonating sigh. “You must have been young. That is why you were not altered.”

  “Yes.” The mechanical flesh and weapons weren’t grafted on until after they were fully grown. It had been near that time for Yasmeen—but this was also not what she wanted to hear, and she didn’t care to be subtle when she steered. “Archimedes told me that I was wrong about Temür—that he hadn’t been the one to burn the city.”

  “No,” Archimedes jumped in immediately. “He did burn it. I only said he was a Horde rebel.”

  “He was destroying the rebellion.”

  “You are both correct,” Hassan said. His hand shook slightly as he reached for the teapot, but Yasmeen couldn’t determine whether it was with emotion or age. He paused before refilling his cup, as if noticing that she’d finished her glass of wine. “Shall I pour some for you?”

  “Is it from the New World?”

  Humor brightened his face. “Yes.”

  “No, thank you. Drinking nothing is better than that.”

  “I must disagree; even this tea is better than nothing.” He grimaced slightly as he took a sip. “Though I wish I had thought to stock my own supply. Captain Guillouet does not trust any foods or drink that do not come from the Americas. He fears infection.”

  So that was why nothing was fresh. Centuries before, the Horde had concealed the nanoagents in the tea and sugar they’d traded in Europe and northern Africa. By the time they activated their controlling signals, much of the population was infected and helpless to fight back, making their invasions as painless as slipping a greased finger into the barrel of a gun that didn’t hold any bullets.

  Setting his cup down, Hassan continued. “There are those in the empire who would not blame him for his fear. When word of the occupations in England and Africa reached Xanadu, it made many uneasy—as uneasy as news of the zombies had a century before. What if the creatures crossed the empire’s walls and great rivers? What if the Great Khan set up towers to control his people instead of the barbarians? Few would speak out against Argon Khan, however, under whose rule the occupations were ordered—but it was then that the rebellion began to form.”

  Yasmeen hadn’t known that. She’d been taught that Argon Khan had been as wise as Munduhai Khatun, as generous as Toqta Khan. To learn differently didn’t surprise her, however—every Khan was powerful enough to write his own history.

  But it also meant there was only one way that Hassan had heard differently. “Temür Agha told you this?”

  “Yes. Perhaps it is true; perhaps it is not. Perhaps it is only what he was told by others in the rebellion. But it is important to know that there was also another rebellion, though the roots of that go deeper, and was one that challenged the seat of the Great Khan.”

  Yasmeen knew of this one—the heirs of Ögedei, the youngest son of Genghis Khan, could not have been more reviled in the histories. When the great general Batu, son of Genghis Khan’s eldest son, had been named his grandfather’s successor, Ögedei’s supporters had called Batu’s legitimacy into question, reminding all that Genghis Khan’s wife had been raped in captivity before the birth of Batu’s father. Though Batu had crushed the opposition, he allowed his uncle Ögedei to live, sending him to secure the peninsula ruled by the Goryeo emperors.

  Ögedei’s descendants did not forget the question of legitimacy, however—and the blame for many assassinations within the royal line were laid at their feet. Yasmeen didn’t know if that were true, or if Ögedei’s heirs were simply a convenient scapegoat.

  “Twenty-five years ago,” Hassan said, “Kuyuk the Pretender began amassing an army in the White Mountains east of the Black Sea, claiming to be Ögedei’s heir. The Horde’s generals searched for him, but even though a generation had passed since the great plague, they had too few soldiers to be thorough, and for a decade Kuyuk remained well hidden—then the Great Khan sent Temür to flush him out. Kuyuk ran northwest, around the sea, then southeast.”

  “On a route to Constantinople,” Yasmeen murmured.

  “Even Temür doesn’t know whether that was the Pretender’s intention, or if it simply lay in his path as he returned east. His army must have been exhausted by the flight, low on supplies and starving—perhaps he only attacked the city to replenish his provisions. But Kuyuk claimed that he would prove to Xanadu his royal blood, a direct line from Genghis Khan, by sacking a city in the same way. Temür was not far behind him.”

  The man paused, sipped his tea. Though he gave little indication of it, Yasmeen sensed that his thoughts were troubled, his emotions suppressed.

  “Temür had long been embroiled in another battle, though it was one that took more care and diplomacy—to convince the Great Khan to strike down the towers in the occupied territories. But the territories are lucrative, so the Khan would not. Temür requested the governorship of the northern African territories, but the Khan wanted to keep him close. But the Pretender’s sacking of Constantinople posed a real threat to him—not that he feared Kuyuk would march on Xanadu, but that t
he people’s confidence in him would be further damaged, and support for the rebellion— the true rebellion—would grow. So the Khan made the promise that if Temür stopped the Pretender, he would have Morocco.”

  “But he didn’t just stop Kuyuk,” Yasmeen said. “Temür obliterated him, along with the city. There were still citizens there—citizens of the empire.”

  “Yes,” Hassan said. Though he said it unflinchingly, a deep weariness seemed to settle over him. “He wanted to make certain that the Khan feared him enough never to go back on his promise. Then he sent Nasrin to destroy the Khan’s stable.”

  “What?” Still trying to take in the implications of Temür’s actions, trying to decide the sort of man they made, the shock of that statement sent her reeling. “Did she succeed?”

  Hassan nodded. “Almost completely.”

  “The stable?” Archimedes leaned forward, frowning. “For his ponies? I haven’t heard this.”

  “Mongols don’t put their ponies in stables. It was a prison, a workhouse for the European mathematicians and philosophers that the Polo brothers and the fool Marco introduced to Toqta Khan.” Feeling light-headed, Yasmeen reached for her cigarillo case. Damn it. She clenched her fist, took a breath. “But they are all dead, of course, replaced by those from within the empire. They are called the Khan’s magicians. But that word is wrong—there is no magic; it is only superstition. They are his inventors. The cleverest children are picked from the crèches and the villages, and brought to Xanadu—and of those, the cleverest are chosen for the stable.” A golden cage, much like the houses of the gan tsetseng, and those chosen were never allowed to leave. “The stable has been available to the royals, only the royals, for centuries. Their technologies are guarded like no other secret, though of course we see what they have created every day. But how does it work? So it is magic to many of those in the empire.”

  “The nanoagents,” Archimedes realized.

  “Those,” Hassan said. “But it began earlier: the war machines that were sent west.”

  “The kraken, the megalodons, the giant eels,” Yasmeen put in. “All created when the European navies began to put steam engines in their ships, the better to take the war to the Horde empire—so the Horde created monsters drawn to the engine vibrations. The gan tsetseg, the mechanical flesh, the towers, the boilerworms . . . There is too much to name, and I’m certain that even I have not heard of it all. But all of it was theirs, all of it designed to strengthen the empire and protect the royal family.” She turned to Hassan, still disbelieving. “She destroyed the stable? She killed them all?”

  “Yes. Perhaps a few were left. It’s impossible to be certain.”

  All of that knowledge, the brilliance, the centuries of work . . . but Yasmeen couldn’t be sorry. That was too much power in the hands of one man.

  “But of course, the truth is hidden,” Hassan said. “Temür has made certain the rebels know, but to most of the empire, the Khan’s magicians were only a story to begin with, so the tale of their destruction makes no difference. The truth about the Pretender and the sack of Constantinople has been squashed as well, and instead, Temür Agha crushed a rebellion.”

  “And now you hope to crush him,” Archimedes said.

  “I don’t hope for that, no.” Hassan shook his head. “If God wills it, Temür will understand that it is best for all if he steps down. For as long as he governs, the people of Rabat will not see the difference between his rule and the Horde’s—and they will always fear. But if one of our own governs in his stead . . . ? They will have hope.”

  “And if he’s killed?” Yasmeen asked.

  Hassan closed his eyes. “I cannot think of that. I pray that when the tower comes down, he will see that Rabat cannot be truly free until he has gone.”

  Until he has gone. If he had the wrong sketch, then Yasmeen would help him along.

  The older man sighed again, and Archimedes met Yasmeen’s eyes. She nodded. Yes, they had almost stayed too long—and Hassan was likely looking forward to his midday rest. She’d discovered almost everything she wished to know, anyway.

  Almost. “Why don’t you drink the wine? Do you fear poison?” The corners of Hassan’s eyes creased with his smile. “No. It is because the sin is greater than the benefit.”

  Yasmeen recognized those words. “So you have also taken up the old religion—as Kareem al-Amazigh has.”

  “As Temür Agha did,” he corrected gently. “When trying to restore a city after two hundred years of occupation, one can’t simply erase everything the Horde has put into place—there would be chaos. The Horde’s support will be gone, and so we searched for new rules of governing, new policies . . . and the economic rules from the Qur’an were very good, very fair. They resonated with us, as they do the people—as does the faith. But I will admit, we are feeling our way. Much of the scholarship was lost, and there is still conflict in our hearts.”

  “You could appeal to the scholars in the Far Maghreb,” Archimedes suggested.

  “We have. They will not return from the New World as long as Temür is still governor.” He smiled again. “Until then, I will follow my conscience—and drink tea fit for camels rather than wine.”

  Chapter Ten

  Archimedes followed Yasmeen out of Hassan’s stateroom, before spinning around and entering again. Curious, she stopped to wait for him, then had to laugh when he came back out with the bottle of wine in hand.

  Yes, they could put it to much better use. His grin wide, his long stride carried him close, but she didn’t back away. She loved to look at him—his wicked smile, his active expressions, his handsome features. She wanted him close.

  If only his longing would grow deep enough to kiss her.

  She felt his breath instead, the dip of his head as he bent to her ear. “Did you find out everything you wanted to know about Temür Agha?”

  “Mostly, yes.”

  “Good.”

  He didn’t move. She was listening for others; so was he. His gaze roamed her face, fell to her lips. “When I kiss you, I don’t know if I’ll stop.”

  She didn’t want him to. Her heart pounded as his mouth moved across her cheek, hovered over her lips.

  “Now, I breathe your breath, and it’s sweeter than any kiss I’ve ever had.” His thumb dragged over her bottom lip. “When I’m finally inside you . . .”

  He trailed off, his eyes glazing as if imagining it. Yasmeen did, too—the heavy thrust, the slide of sweaty limbs. Opening her mouth, she bit the tip of his thumb, and with a flick of her tongue, tasted the salt of his skin. His eyes met hers, and the world stilled.

  A door opened farther down the passageway.

  He drew back, pushed his fingers through his hair. His breathing wasn’t steady. “I’ll see if Ollivier has those notes ready.”

  “Don’t drink anything.”

  “I won’t.”

  She looked down the passageway. “If Bigor’s in the wardroom, I’ll talk to him about tomorrow.”

  “We’ll go in before dawn?”

  “Yes.” They’d reach the pass by the middle of the night. Using the darkness for cover, they could slip in—or they could wait a day. She didn’t want to wait. The more quickly this expedition finished, the more quickly they’d fly to Rabat.

  Archimedes stopped at the next cabin, knocked. Yasmeen continued aft. Amidships, she met Deflowered Henri, who paused and fidgeted, mouth flapping like a fish as she passed. She’d seen that look before on young aviators: anxious to speak with her, but lacking the position to address her without being acknowledged first.

  Because she could still remember his feet twitching on a tavern table, his stiffened toes spreading wide—and because the memory still amused her to no end—she stopped. “Yes?”

  Bright red, he said, “Is it true you only gave your crew fifty percent, ma’am?”

  It was true. “Why?”

  “Last year, your girl Ginger said she earned three livre. But the engine stoker’s boy says he’s hear
d only a fifty percent split between Lady Corsair’s crew. Even Guillouet gives us seventy, so I told him that couldn’t be true. And as she’s dead, I won’t stand for him calling her a liar.”

  The boy was defending Ginger’s honor. That was sweet. “Ginger’s still alive, Henri. She’s with a friend of mine in London. If you like, I can pass on a message for you.”

  “No.” His blush deepened. “Thank you, ma’am. I just wanted to know, so I can tell the stoker what you said.”

  Was it so important? Interesting. In Yasmeen’s experience, if the boys on a ship were discussing earnings and percentages, then the rest of the crew was, too. She might as well set straight whatever rumor was flying around.

  “I gave them fifty percent,” she said and watched his face droop. “But she did earn three livre last year. Most of my crew earned five each.”

  “Truly?” His eyes widened. “And Ginger said that if they lost a hand or an eye, you paid for a replacement, too.”

  “Yes.”

  “I told him that. He said: But she can’t replace their lives.”

  Yasmeen hoped she didn’t run into this stoker’s boy anytime soon. “That’s also true. Now go on, before the captain finds you talking with me and thinks you’re staging a mutiny.”

  Face suddenly pale, he ran off. Yasmeen grinned. Young boys were so serious. It was only a bit of humor at her own expense, but he must have taken her at her word.

  She continued down the passageway. The wardroom lay all the way aft, two decks above the engines. Already huffing along, it wouldn’t be long before Ceres arrived at Brenner’s Pass. She hoped Guillouet had experience with the mountain winds.

  Before she had a chance to knock, Laurent opened the door, obviously on the way out. He stopped suddenly, brows lifting.

  “Is Mr. Bigor in?”

  Stepping back, he gave a little jerk of his chin, inviting her in. A man of few words, apparently. He held the door open for her, then Dubois followed him out.