After a while, they’d stopped trying.
“Was it terrible? I’ve killed so many people, I forget what my reasons were.” A lie, but she wasn’t the only one telling them. Now it was time to find out this woman’s reasons. With a belabored sigh, Yasmeen climbed to her feet. “That’s all I’ve come to tell you. A few of Archimedes’s belongings are still in my ship. Would you like them, or should I distribute them among my crew?”
“Oh, yes. That’s fine.” For a moment, the blond seemed distracted and uncertain. Then her shoulders squared, and she said, “My brother hired you to take him to Venice, and was searching for a specific item. Did he find it . . . before he died?”
Ah, so that’s what it was. Yasmeen had spoken to three art dealers about locating a buyer for the sketch Archimedes Fox had found in Venice. A flying machine drawn by the great Leonardo da Vinci, the sketch was valuable beyond measure.
She’d demanded that the dealers be discreet in their inquiries. Not even Yasmeen’s crew knew what she’d locked away in her cabin. But obviously, someone had talked.
“It was a fake,” Yasmeen lied.
No uncertainty weakened Zenobia’s expression now. “I’d still like to have it. As a memento.”
Yasmeen nodded. “If you’ll show me out, I’ll retrieve it for you now.” She followed the woman out of the parlor and into the hallway. “Will you hold the rope ladder for me? It’s so unsteady.”
“Of course.” All smiles, Zenobia reached the front door.
Yasmeen didn’t give her a chance to open it. Slapping her gloved hand over the blond’s mouth, she kicked the woman’s knees out from beneath her. Yasmeen slammed her against the floor and shoved her knife against the woman’s throat.
Quietly, she hissed, “Where is Zenobia Fox?”
The woman struggled for breath. “I am Zen—”
A press of the blade cut off the woman’s lie. Yasmeen smiled, and the woman’s skin paled.
Her smile frequently had that effect.
“Your hair smells of tobacco smoke but your clothes don’t. The dress doesn’t fit you. You’ve tried to take Zenobia’s place but you’ve no idea who you’re pretending to be. Where is she?” When the woman’s lips pressed together in an unmistakable response, Yasmeen let her blade taste blood. The woman whimpered. “I imagine that you’re working with someone. You didn’t think of this yourself. Is he waiting upstairs?”
The woman’s eyelids flickered. Answer enough.
“I can kill you now, and ask him instead,” Yasmeen said.
That made her willing to talk. Her lips parted. Yasmeen didn’t allow her enough air to make a sound.
“Is Zenobia in the house? Nod once if yes.”
Nod.
“Is she alive?”
Nod.
Good. Yasmeen might not kill this woman, now. She eased back just enough to let the woman respond. “Where did you hear about the sketch?”
“Port Fallow,” she whispered. “We also knew you were looking for Fox’s sister. We realized he must have found the sketch on his last salvaging run.”
Yasmeen had only spoken to one art dealer in Port Fallow: Franz Kessler. Damn his loose tongue. She’d make certain he wouldn’t talk out of turn again—especially if this had been his idea. This woman certainly hadn’t the wits to connect the sketch to Zenobia.
“You and the one upstairs. Was this his plan?”
Yasmeen interpreted her hesitation as a no—and that this woman was afraid of whoever had set it up.
She’d chosen the wrong person to fear.
“What airship did you fly in on?”
“Windrunner. Last night.”
A passenger ship. “Who’s upstairs?”
A different, deeper fear entered her eyes now, but she answered anyway. “My husband.”
A man she genuinely cared for. A man who either didn’t care as much in return, or was as stupid as his wife. “Did he create this plan to cheat me? Answer carefully. Whether he lives or dies depends on your response.”
The woman finally used her brain, and gave up the name Yasmeen wanted. “No. It was Peter Mills. He’s waiting for us at the Rose & Thorn Inn.”
Miracle Mills, the weapons smuggler. A worthy occupation, in Yasmeen’s opinion, but Miracle Mills sullied the profession. He always recruited partners to assist him with the job, but as soon as the cargo was secure, the partners conveniently disappeared. Mills usually claimed an attack by Horde forces or zombies had killed them, yet every time, he miraculously survived.
No doubt that if this couple had secured the sketch for him, they’d have disappeared soon, too.
“Did he hire you just for this job?”
“Yes. We’re grateful. We’ve been out of work for almost a full season, and he promised us a share.”
A full season of what? This woman’s soft hands had never seen any kind of labor. Only one possibility occurred to her.
“Are you actors?”
The blond nodded. “And dancers. But they replaced us with automatons, and we lost our positions.”
Yasmeen suspected that the automatons displayed more talent. “All right. Call your husband down.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ll make you a better deal than Mills will.” Yasmeen wouldn’t kill them, anyway. “And because if I go upstairs holding a knife to your throat, he might do something stupid to Miss Fox.”
“Oh.” Her eyes widened. “How do I call him?”
God save her from idiots. “I’ll let you up. You’ll open and close the door as if you’ve just come in from outside, and yell, ‘I’ve got it! Come see!’ You’ll be very excited.”
“And then?”
“I’ll do the rest.” She waited for the woman to nod, then backed away and hauled her up. “Now.”
Yasmeen had to admit, she played the scene perfectly. Her husband rushed down the stairs so quickly, he didn’t notice Yasmeen standing in the entry to the parlor until he was almost upon her. She smiled.
The man paled.
While two members of her crew escorted the husband and wife up to Lady Corsair, Yasmeen searched upstairs. She found Zenobia—still with brown hair, and just as handsome as her brother—tied and gagged in the first bedroom. Two maids lay next to her, bound hand to foot.
Yasmeen sliced through their ropes, and after accepting their thank-yous, returned downstairs to wait so that they could weep or rant in private. Her cabin girl, Ginger, brought Yasmeen’s favorite tea down from Lady Corsair, and relayed that Peter Mills was in Fladstrand, and that Rousseau had sent messages to the passenger airship captains suggesting that they didn’t allow Miracle Mills to board any of their vessels before Yasmeen had a chance to speak with him.
None of the captains had yet replied, but Yasmeen doubted that they’d risk Lady Corsair chasing them across the skies. So Mills couldn’t leave town, even if he became aware that he should.
When Zenobia came downstairs, still moving stiffly after hours of being tied, Yasmeen relayed the same information to her. The other woman nodded and poured herself a cup before sitting on the chair opposite Yasmeen’s.
“You’ve come to tell me that Wolfram is dead,” she said.
“Yes.” Yasmeen studied the other woman’s expression. She saw resignation. Sadness. But no sudden grief. “You don’t seem surprised.”
“I was supposed to receive word from him six weeks ago. When I didn’t, I gave him another week. And then another. By the third week, I had to accept that a letter wasn’t coming. So I have had three weeks to adjust myself to the idea.” She sipped from her tea before leveling a direct stare at Yasmeen. “Wolfram isn’t part of your crew. So why have you really come?”
“He was on my ship. He wasn’t my crew, but he was my responsibility,” she said, marveling at the other woman’s composure. How was it that Yasmeen didn’t feel as steady as his sister looked? She slipped her fingers into her pocket, produced her cigarillo case and lighter. “Do you mind if I . . . ?”
&nb
sp; “Yes,” Zenobia said bluntly. “It reeks.”
“If you smoke one, too, you won’t notice it as much.” Yasmeen smiled when the other woman only fixed a baleful look on the proffered cigarillo. She slid it back into the silver case. “I have his belongings and his purse—minus the five livre he owed to me for his passage.”
Five livre was a large sum of money, but Zenobia didn’t blink. “I’ll take them. And the da Vinci sketch?”
“You’d be a fool to keep it in your possession.”
“As aptly demonstrated today.”
Though dryly stated, Yasmeen could see that the other woman knew it was the truth. “Mills will only be the first.”
“Yes.” Zenobia took another sip before coming to a decision. “Sell it, then.”
Exultation burst through Yasmeen’s veins. She contained it, and merely nodded. “I will.”
A tiny smile flirted with the woman’s mouth. “I understand that on dangerous flights, the airship captain receives twenty-five percent of the salvage.”
Yasmeen met Zenobia’s steady gaze. “For this job, I’ll take fifty percent.”
Her tone said there’d be no negotiation. Her face must have conveyed the same. Zenobia studied her, as if weighing the chances of coming to a different agreement.
Finally, she took another sip and said, “I suppose fifty percent of an absurd fortune is still a ridiculous amount of money.”
Clever woman. This was the Zenobia that Yasmeen had expected to find. She wasn’t disappointed. “I’ll see that you receive your half when the sale is finalized.”
“Thank you.” She hesitated, and some of the hardness of negotiation dropped from her expression, revealing a hint of vulnerability. “I heard a little bit of what you said about the zombies, captain. Is it true that you deliberately threw him into a canal?”
So three weeks had given her time to adjust to the idea? Obviously not completely. Yasmeen shook her head. “It was the middle of the night. I couldn’t know where he landed.”
Lies. Her eyes saw well enough in the dark. She’d watched him splash into the canal. She’d known that with luck and brains, he’d survive—and her crew wouldn’t think she’d gone soft or weak.
But even for Archimedes Fox, his chances of survival were slim. She wouldn’t give this woman any more false hope than she offered herself.
“I see.” Zenobia’s fingers tightened on her cup. “If, on your travels, you see him with the others . . .”
“I’ll shoot him,” Yasmeen promised.
“Thank you.” The vulnerability left her face, replaced by sudden amusement. “Speaking of your travels, captain . . . you’ve tossed the source of my stories overboard.”
Yasmeen looked pointedly at the ink staining her fingers. “You’re writing.”
“Only letters.”
“You won’t need the income when I’ve sold the sketch.”
“You misunderstand me.” Zenobia set her cup on the table and leaned forward. “I don’t need the income now. I write because I enjoy it. Will you leave your airship when you’ve received your portion of the money?”
“No.” When she left her lady for the last time, it would only be because her dead body had been dragged away.
“It is the same with me for writing. I won’t stop, not voluntarily. But I do need inspiration for the stories. With the basis for Archimedes gone, I’ll have to create another character. Perhaps a woman this time.” She sat back, her gaze narrowed on Yasmeen’s face. “What about . . . The Adventures of Lady Lynx?”
Yasmeen laughed. Zenobia didn’t.
“You’re not joking?”
The other woman shook her head. “You’ve killed my research source and taken an extra twenty-five percent from his spoils. You live a life of adventure.”
“Yes, but—”
“I’ll write them. You receive twenty-five percent of royalties.”
The sudden need for a cigarillo almost overwhelmed her. A drink, a hit of opium. Anything to calm her jumping nerves. Was she going to agree to this?
Yes. Of course she was. Even without royalties, she would have.
But still, no need to be stupid about it.
“Fifty percent of royalties,” Yasmeen countered.
“Twenty-five. You send me reports of where you go, who you see, what you eat. I need to know how long it takes you to fly to each location. I want your impressions of your crew, your passengers, and everyone you meet.”
Impossible. “I won’t share everything.”
“I won’t name them. I only seek authenticity, not a reproduction of the truth.”
“I won’t share everything,” Yasmeen repeated.
For a moment, Zenobia looked as if she’d try to negotiate that, too. Then she shrugged. “Of course you can’t. But let us begin with your background. Thirteen years ago, you joined my father’s crew. After you killed him—well done, by the way—you sold Lady Corsair’s services as a mercenary in the French-Liberé war, where you worked both sides, depending upon who paid the most. You earned the reputation of being willing to do anything for money. But what happened before that? Where were you before my father’s ship?”
In a very pretty cage. But did she want to share that? Yasmeen shook her head.
“As far as I’m concerned, my life started when I boarded Lady Corsair. Make up what you like about what came before.”
“All right. A mysterious past will only make Lady Lynx more fascinating,” she mused. “I could deliver the background in bits, like crumbs.”
“Whatever you like.” Yasmeen stood. “The other reports, I’ll send to you regularly.”
Zenobia’s expression sharpened as she rose. “Where are you heading after you leave Fladstrand? Do you have a job now?”
“No. We’ll spend the day traveling to Port Fallow. Mills is only here because another man talked about the sketch. I need to have a conversation with him.”
Then she’d fly to England, and ask the Iron Duke to hold the sketch safe at his London fortress until she found a buyer. She couldn’t risk carrying it with her any longer. Lady Corsair had become a moving target.
“And will you also have a conversation with Mills?”
A frown had furrowed the other woman’s brow. Did she think Yasmeen would leave without taking care of Mills, or did some other matter concern her?
“Yes,” Yasmeen said. “Why?”
“Perhaps I should contact the town’s magistrate, instead.”
And let word spread that Yasmeen had run to the authorities after Miracle Mills had tried to cheat her, rather than taking care of him on her own? Not a chance.
“You can,” she told Zenobia. “But I won’t wait for you to arrive at the inn with him.”
Indecision warred on the woman’s face.
“Come with me,” Yasmeen offered. “Call it research. I think you’ll find that the magistrate will arrive sooner or later.”
“To arrest you?”
That startled a laugh from her. “For what?”
“For whatever you do to Mills.”
Ah. Zenobia assumed that Yasmeen would burst into the inn, guns firing. She wrote stories where characters did exactly that—but like most people, she balked when faced with the reality of that scenario.
Yasmeen tended to avoid such scenes herself. “I only intend to talk with him, and make certain that he knows—that everyone knows—you don’t have the sketch, and that you’ll never have access to it.”
The woman visibly relaxed. “I see. Thank you.”
“It’s not personal. I simply want my twenty-five percent, and more stories.” When Zenobia smiled in response, she gestured to the door. “Shall we go?”
She waited outside while the other woman retrieved her coat. The frigid air shivered through her. Lighting a cigarillo, she let the smoke warm her lungs and ease the tiny shakes.
A few neighbors had ventured outside, all of them watching Yasmeen without looking directly at her, or tilting their heads back to gape at
Lady Corsair. Zenobia waved to them and called a good morning when she finally emerged, and Yasmeen couldn’t decide whether surprise or relief added such volume to the Good morning!s they called to her in return. Feeling the cold down to her toes, she started for the rope ladder.
“Captain Corsair?” When Yasmeen turned, Zenobia avoided her gaze. She seemed to find the act of pulling on her gloves either fascinating, or extraordinarily difficult. “I thought we might walk rather than fly.”
“I thought you might want to have a look at my lady. For authenticity.” And because the steam engine kept the cabins heated and the deck beneath her feet warm.
“I’ve seen her.” She shot a glance upward. “When she was my father’s.”
Damn it. Yasmeen wouldn’t ask what had happened. She’d seen enough of Emmerich Gunther-Baptiste’s cruelties to guess.
“We walk, then.”
Zenobia’s boot soles clipped across the cobblestones as she matched Yasmeen’s long stride. So loud. Yasmeen’s soft leather wasn’t as warm, but at least it was quiet—and didn’t announce her approach from hundreds of yards away.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t have stopped you from boarding Lady Corsair.” Zenobia’s cheeks had already flushed with cold. “You only intend to talk, but who knows what Mills intends. You should have armed yourself first.”
Funny. Yasmeen pulled open her coat, exposing the knives sheathed at her thighs. “I’m always armed.”
“You’re only taking daggers?”
No need to mention the pistols in her coat pockets. Yasmeen didn’t intend to use them. “The only weapon I bring to a conversation is a knife. A gun means that the talking is over.”
“Oh, I must make Lady Lynx say that.” Without a break in her stride, she tore off her right glove with her teeth before digging out a paper and pencil from her pocket. She scribbled the line as she walked.
Inspiration was to be taken so directly? Yasmeen slowed to accommodate the other woman’s preoccupation, wondering if she’d often done the same when walking with Archimedes . . . who was charming and fun, much like the character she’d written. Yasmeen had assumed it also reflected the sister, but she seemed far more sober and practical than her brother had been.
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