“It’s both.” To the gan tsetseg, whose very existence was created to honor an act of love and protection, those bonds of loyalty and duty were life—and there was nothing else. Yasmeen couldn’t believe the same, not anymore, but she couldn’t shed everything from her upbringing, and there were memories and stories that she held close. So, too, would the other women. “I’d never wish it for myself. I’d have hated it. But I’ve also recently thought that there are some bonds that I do welcome, because I receive something that makes the burden worth bearing in return. So I understand her a little better.”
“Perhaps you do. But even if you loved me, I wouldn’t want you to do that. I would rather you never loved me at all than to know my death killed you.”
Such a romantic. Sitting up, she cupped his strong jaw. His gaze locked with hers. She lowered her head, breathing his breath. Yes. He was right: This was almost better than a kiss. When he whispered her name, she pressed her face into his neck, smelled his incredible scent.
How could she know what this bond between them was? Friendship, yes. A common purpose. Perhaps the rest was only lust. Perhaps it was more.
Right now, lust was enough.
Dropping her right hand between them, she loosened her breeches, slipped her fingers inside. By the lady, he made her so wet.
“Yasmeen.”
She loved the sound of his voice, the need in it as he rasped her name. She loved the boldness of his fingers replacing hers. She loved his heavy groan when he found her, slick and hot, loved the tension in his lean body. Purring when his fingers pushed deeper, she rose and fell against him, and he shook with agonized restraint.
“You torture yourself so well.” Panting, she licked his throat, felt him shiver. “Come, Archimedes Fox. Torture me, too. Make me scream.”
But the only real torture would have been stopping. He explored instead, discovering what gave her the most pleasure, his fingers clever and adventurous. He learned her quickly. Writhing against his hand, Yasmeen hovered over him, lips all but touching his, breathing his breath—until she did finally scream, muffling her cries against his neck.
Chapter Eleven
Archimedes forced himself out of bed when the soft knock came at the door, hoping it didn’t wake Yasmeen. He loved how irritable she was when her knees hurt, but couldn’t love the reason for it—and at least he could support her through it. In just a few days, their mornings had become ritual: a quick wash, followed by pacing. Today, that ritual had to begin earlier, but they’d start with a meal.
As Archimedes had requested the night before, a galley assistant brought their breakfast to them—two bowls of oat porridge and black coffee. Yasmeen hated the coffee, but Archimedes would drink hers, too. She lifted her head from her pillow when he pulled the trunk from beneath her bunk—God, what she’d done to him on it yesterday—and used it as their table. Eyes still heavy, she began pacing right after eating, hobbling along. She didn’t seem to have slept any better than he had—wondering half the night if they would be under a mutiny, perhaps.
Finally, she dressed in extra layers, strapped on her weapons, and gathered their packs: food in both, a bedroll to share in his, a change of clothes for each of them in hers, in case those they were wearing became wet. Not much, but the packs had to be light, especially with the excuses for gliders that were aboard Ceres. All airships carried them for emergencies, but hers must have been purchased at the start of the war twenty years prior.
Yasmeen would take the lead when they jumped from the airship. With no light from the moon and the deck lanterns extinguished, Archimedes could only make out the shadows of the peaks rising around them, the faint lights from the Horde outpost—he wouldn’t have been able to spot the fortress against the opposite mountainside. The ship sailed silently, the wind biting his cheeks. Bigor met them on the main deck, looking as straight and fresh as if he never needed sleep. He held up two folded batwing gliders, and Archimedes saw Yasmeen’s relief.
“Thank you, Mr. Bigor.”
He nodded. “You’ll probably hit crosswinds. Not strong, but enough to toss those older ones over. These were made to maneuver in inclement weather, and the wing size can be adjusted. You’re both familiar with them?”
“Yes,” Archimedes said. Uneasily familiar with them. These gliders maneuvered so well, even acrobats used them—and the marsouins were trained for aerial infiltration.
Yasmeen joined him at the side of the ship. Her eyes narrowed when she saw his face. “What is it?”
He shook his head and slipped on his goggles. Now wasn’t the time to tell her of his sudden suspicions, but they nagged at him, dimming his usual thrill when they jumped from the airship, caught the wind.
Though he couldn’t see the fortress, Ollivier’s notes had included drawings and floor plans. Designed with the simplicity of a monastery and the strength of a citadel, high stone walls formed three sides of a rectangle, with the mountainside serving as the fourth. At the corners and at the main gate, crenellated towers overlooked the valley. Instead of a keep, a two-level stone barracks supported the interior base of the curtain wall, strengthening the defenses and providing chambers for storage, quarters for the soldiers, engineers, and laborers, a foundry to produce the steel needed for da Vinci’s machines, and a smithy to shape the parts. The walls and barracks surrounded the enormous courtyard, where the machines were constructed before they rolled out of the main gate.
Yasmeen banked as she approached the southwest tower, aligning herself over the curtain wall and extending the glider’s wings, allowing the greater surface area to catch the air and slow her down. Skimming over the crenels, she landed atop the wall and ran along its wide surface, folding the wings back as she came to a stop. Archimedes came in right after her, snow hardened by wind and sun crunching beneath his boots. Yasmeen was a dark silhouette against all the white; over the side of the wall, the courtyard lay in dense shadow.
“There are footprints,” she said quietly.
Zombies, then, somewhere. The fortress wouldn’t have been constructed with defense against them in mind; it had been built before the zombie infection. He followed her to the southwest tower, where an arched doorway led to a spiral stair, the wooden door long rotted away. All was darkness inside, but Archimedes didn’t dare light the drip lamp until they were behind the curtain walls.
“I can see,” Yasmeen said. Drawing her machetes, she entered the twisting stairwell. Snow covered the first steps, but the stone was bare past the turn. His palm against the rough block wall, Archimedes felt his way in the dark, and almost bumped into Yasmeen when she stopped.
Her whisper was irritated. “It’s too dark for me now, too.”
With a silent laugh, he opened the valve to start the gas and lit the lamp. The reflector bowl cast a wide, bright light, revealing granite blocks and steps. A few more turns, and the stair opened to the barracks’ second level.
Yasmeen hesitated briefly. “This one first?”
He nodded. Better not to have a zombie at their backs.
They stepped out into the corner chamber. The barracks ran north into the side of the mountain and east along the face of the wall toward the main gate, a long series of chambers connected by doors. To the north, the chambers were all but empty. Either the departing soldiers had taken everything with them, or the Horde outpost had done some scavenging of its own. A few tables remained—perhaps too big to take down the stairs. Arched openings in the stone walls served as windows overlooking the dark courtyard, and small mounds of snow piled on the sills and the stone floor.
No zombies.
They returned to the tower and started east. Debris on the floor gave Archimedes some hope of a find, but he’d sift through it after they secured the fortress. They reached the gate, where the fortifications were twice as thick and separated the barracks that ran along the curtain wall. Another twisting stairwell led below, and with the top level cleared, they didn’t have to fear zombies coming at them from above.
“Shall we make a stand here?” Yasmeen murmured. “We can escape through the stairs if we’re overwhelmed.”
By all appearances, they wouldn’t be. There were fewer zombies in this region to begin with, and only one set of footprints above. Though they might simply be lying quiet, as they had been in the Vienna keep, it was more likely that only a few were here.
He nodded. “Yes.”
They dropped their packs, readied their weapons. After a glance confirming that she was ready, he gave a whoop that echoed through the chambers. Removing her hat, she exposed her softly pointed, tufted ears. She turned her head, listening.
“Anything?” He didn’t need to whisper now.
“Not yet.” She drummed her machetes against the stone wall, making racket enough to wake the dead. “Hiyoooooo, zombieeees!”
When the echoes and his laughter faded, she shook her head. “I don’t hear anything.”
“All right. Let’s move on.”
They cleared more chambers, arriving at the southwest tower again, then heading north toward the mountainside. The snow outside had piled higher than the window openings, drifts spilling into the chambers in large mounds. In the courtyard, dark machinery jutted up through the white, huge and indistinct—war machines abandoned in the middle of construction, or simply the scrap heap from what was left. Yasmeen stopped at one of the windows, peering out, her head tilting back as her gaze continued upward.
Her lips parted. “There’s snow all over so I can’t see what it is . . . but it’s huge. Not like one of da Vinci’s. More like one of the Horde’s early war machines, the domed clambering ones that looked like turtles.”
Unease rippled through him. That didn’t make sense. How could something that big get into the fortress—or out? It would have to crash through the walls, and they were intact.
A rumble sounded from the courtyard. Yasmeen froze, eyes wide. Archimedes doused the light, heart pounding. That hadn’t been zombies.
That had been a steam engine.
The clank of metal against stone echoed through the chambers, followed by a huffing snort. Then more clanks, in a recognizable rhythm: walking on four feet. A wolf, a horse, a cat. God knew. Maybe something like the ratcatchers in London, cats changed by the Horde into large, vicious hunters with steel armor, razored teeth and claws . . . only by the sound of it, much bigger.
Archimedes stared through the dark, listening to the clanging echo. He couldn’t get a fix, though it had to be in one of the barracks. The snow in the courtyard would have muffled those steps. “Which direction is it coming from?”
“South.” The way they’d come. Her hand grasped his as an orange glow appeared in the farthest chamber, near the tower. “Let’s go. We can cut through the courtyard to the barracks on the opposite side.”
She led him to the window. They scrambled up the mound of snow, slipped down the drift pile into the courtyard. They went quickly, knee-deep in the snow, Archimedes praying that zombies weren’t under it. The mountainside lay to their left. Machinery rose through the snow on their right, dark amid all the white. Good. Lots of places to hide.
The huffing of the engine quickened, the clank coming faster—galloping. Then suddenly, not clanking. Archimedes’ heart raced. It was in the courtyard. Yasmeen suddenly darted to the side, pulled him down next to a piece of machinery. Another snort sounded. Closer. Crouching, they felt their way along the machine, searching for the end, a corner to go around, something to hide behind. The orange glow suddenly offered more light, and Archimedes saw: There was no end to the machine until it reached the other side of the courtyard.
That meant as soon as the thing following them entered the corridor created between the mountain and the machine, it would have them in a direct line of sight.
“Fuck.” On a desperate breath, Yasmeen pulled him down again. She sheathed her machetes, drew her guns. “Whatever it is, I’ll distract it. You run to the barracks, to the southeast tower. I’ll meet you there.”
No goddamn chance in hell. He’d run out there naked before he let Yasmeen use herself as bait. But as a sensible man, even when stalked by a giant huffing animal, he put it to her in the least likely way to piss her off.
“No,” he said simply.
“Archimedes—”
“Let’s see what it is first. If it’s faster than you, running out there would be suicide.”
She nodded and stood. Archimedes rose with her, his hands searching the side of the machine. He found pipes, riveted panels. Plenty to grab on to. They could climb, and—
Oh, Good God.
A giant mechanical horse galloped toward them, but it was a horse made in hell. Eyes glowed with orange. Steel spikes jutted from its chest and neck. Two rapid-fire guns were bolted to its sides, both aimed forward. Fifteen yards away, it came to a sudden stop on legs made from thick pistons. Iron plates formed the skin. At least ten feet tall at the withers, its barrel-shaped body was big enough to hold the devoured remains of twenty men.
Or just a few men, if they were driving it. But how would they see? In the orange glow and changing shadows, Archimedes spotted the narrow vertical slots on its chest.
“Eye slits,” he said. “Between the spikes.”
Someone was in that thing and looking back at them.
The rapid-fire barrels spun.
“Oh, you fucking bastard.” Yasmeen swore at the machine and grabbed his hand. They raced, and it came after them, pounding and snorting. Yasmeen whirled, whipping a knife through the air. The blade slammed into the center eye slit, stopped only by the hilt.
Then she was simply gone.
Archimedes stopped, turned. She was running straight at the giant machine, her long silk kerchief in hand.
He sprinted after her. “Yasmeen!”
She impaled the scarf over the chest spikes, covering the eye slits. With a leap, she was up on its neck, scrambling across the back. Looking for an entrance, he realized. The horse reared, huffing steam from its nose—and from its ass.
Suddenly laughing wildly, Archimedes raced toward it, straight on as she had, out of the firing line of the two guns. The barrels spun. No ammunition. Faintly, he heard shouting from inside, muffled by steel and drowned out by the engine. The horse came down from its rear in a hard stomp. The ground shuddered. Rattled by the impact, Yasmeen fell over its head, thumping to the snow at its front feet. Archimedes dove for her, rolled away as the steel hooves stamped again.
A long piece of wire stabbed through the eye slits, dislodging the scarf. Yasmeen crouched beside him, both motionless, waiting to see the direction the horse moved before they sprang.
The machine quieted, instead. A panel opened in its belly. Guns aimed, they waited.
A young man tumbled out and fell to his knees beneath the mechanical beast, hands outspread as if to show he had no weapons. His face downturned, he was almost crying, Archimedes realized—and his mouth was moving. Over the rumble of the engine, he heard the apology in the Horde language: “I didn’t know it was you, gan tsetseg, but thought one of the soulless had come. Forgive me, lady.”
Gan tsetseg. A flower of steel—the same thing Yasmeen had called herself and Nasrin.
Yasmeen stood stiffly, gun still pointed. Archimedes holstered his.
“He says he’s sorry, steel flower,” he told her in French. “He thought we were zombies.”
Yasmeen blinked. “I couldn’t make it all out. His accent is strong.” She lowered her gun and spoke in Mongolian. “Stand up now.”
Her accent was strong, more like Temür’s than the common Horde rebels that Archimedes had met, but the young man immediately complied. About eighteen or twenty, with rounded face and teary brown eyes, he stood in long quilted tunic split up the middle and belted with a sash. Boots of leather and fur protected his feet.
Yasmeen holstered her weapon. “How many are in the fortress?”
“Only me and no one.”
“Where is no one, then?”
A name, Arch
imedes realized. Nergüi.
“In our chamber. She sleeps heavy with opium.”
“She?”
“My grandmother.”
Yasmeen nodded. “And you are?”
“Terbish.” That one.
She smiled faintly. “Your family had bad luck come calling for you before, yes?”
Though his mouth didn’t curve, Terbish’s eyes crinkled at the corners. Both tears and fear vanished from his face. “Yes.”
She gestured to the horse, quietly rumbling behind him. “Did you build this?”
“Yes.”
“It’s incredible. Will you let us look inside?”
His eyes widened, and he stepped back, arm extended. “Please, lady.”
Terbish and Nergüi had taken one of the chambers near the foundry. To keep the heat from escaping, they’d covered the windows with thick wooden planks from the tables and the entrances with heavily woven curtains. Two pallets lay close to a hearth built from stone and steel, making an efficient oven. A gray-haired woman snored lightly on one.
Terbish bent to wake her. “It will be a few minutes before she rouses. Please, sit.”
Yasmeen glanced at the woven mats beside the pallets and sank down, crossing her legs. Archimedes crouched, and she had to smile. He wouldn’t relax yet. She could move quickly enough it didn’t worry her.
The older woman stirred. Not blissed on opium, Yasmeen saw, but probably drinking a medicine before she slept. The stiffness of her movements suggested arthritis. Nergüi’s eyes widened, then she stilled when she saw Yasmeen’s ears. Quick fear appeared, and then she was up, pushing Terbish off to collect food from their stores. She stoked the fire, and poured fermented milk from a horsehide bag hanging nearby.
Yasmeen accepted the small bowl. After the snow outside, the thick drink was pleasantly warm, slightly sweet and pungent. She passed the bowl to Archimedes.
“I didn’t hear ponies,” she said. Aside from the terrifyingly huge mechanical one. “Do you keep them here?”
“Across the valley.” Nergüi settled onto her mat, crossing her legs as Yasmeen had. “We return to the outpost each week to replenish our supplies.”
Heart of Steel Page 21
