“How much of Archimedes came from him, and how much was you?”
Zenobia tucked her notes away. “All Wolfram. It was easy, though, because I know him well. Lady Lynx will likely have more of me in her.”
Because she didn’t know Yasmeen as well. Fair enough.
“If there is anything that you think she shouldn’t be, Captain Corsair, I would appreciate your telling me now. I can’t promise that you’ll like what I write, but I prefer not to be . . . inaccurate.”
Or to offend her, Yasmeen guessed. She appreciated that. “Don’t let her be an idiot, always threatening someone with a gun. Only let her draw it if she intends to use it.”
Zenobia’s color deepened. “Unlike Archimedes Fox?”
In her stories. “Yes. He did it in every one, and I was always surprised that someone didn’t shoot him while he was waving his gun around. You have to assume that someone will try to kill you while you’re deciding whether or not to shoot them. And so by the time the gun comes out, that decision should have been made.”
“I see.” Her notes were in her hand again, but Zenobia didn’t add to them. “Is that what Wolfram did—wave his gun around?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes closed. “Idiot.”
So Yasmeen had often said, but his sister should know the rest of it. “Stupid, yes. But also exhausted. He returned three weeks late, and Venice wouldn’t have given him time to sleep or eat.” Too many zombies, too few hiding places. “When he climbed up to the ship, he ordered my crew to set a heading for the Ivory Market. I refused and told him to sleep it off before making demands. That’s when he drew his gun and—”
“You waited in Venice three weeks for him?”
Blissed on opium, and wondering why the hell she was still floating over a rotten city. But she’d known. She’d read through each damn story of his, each impossible escape, and she’d known he’d make it out of Venice, too. So she’d waited. And when he’d finally returned to her ship, she’d had to toss him back—believing he might still make it.
But after he’d tried to take her ship, she wouldn’t wait for him again.
“I waited,” she finally answered. “He still owed me half of his fee.”
Zenobia studied her face before slowly nodding. “I see.”
Yasmeen didn’t know what the woman thought she saw—and didn’t much care, either. Three weeks on an airship was nothing. Three weeks in Venice was a nightmare.
“He couldn’t have known I’d wait, but he was late anyway. The sketch wouldn’t be worth anything to him if he died there.”
Zenobia’s chin tilted up at an unmistakable angle, a combination of defiance and pride—as if she felt the need to defend her brother. “Perhaps he was late for the same reason you stayed: money.”
Yes, Yasmeen believed that. If she had followed Archimedes’s orders and flown directly to the Ivory Market, he could have quickly sold the sketch. Which meant that he’d risked his life those three weeks because if he’d left Venice without the sketch—or access to the money—he’d have been dead anyway.
He’d owed someone, and they intended to collect. Few debts would need a da Vinci sketch to cover them, though. Even small salvaged items like those Archimedes collected in Europe sold high at auction. Of the baubles in Zenobia’s parlor, the miniature alone would purchase a luxury steamcoach.
“Does he really owe so much?”
“Yes.”
“So you changed your names.” Yasmeen had to laugh. “He said he was trying to escape your father’s legacy.”
“No. Just Wolfram’s own.”
Zenobia’s sigh seemed to hang in the air. They’d almost reached the Rose & Thorn before she spoke again.
“Is there anything else? For Lady Lynx,” she added, when Yasmeen raised a brow.
“Yes.” The walk here had reminded her of one rule that she’d been fortunate to have learned before Archimedes Fox had ever boarded her ship. “Don’t let her go soft for a man.”
Zenobia stopped, looking dismayed. “A romance adds excitement.”
“With a man who tries to take over everything? Who wants to be master of her ship, or wants the crew to acknowledge that she’s his little woman.” Yasmeen sneered. God, but she imagined it all too easily. “What man can tolerate his woman holding a position superior to him?”
Zenobia apparently couldn’t name one. She grimaced and pulled out her notes. “Not even a mysterious man in the background? More interest from the readers means more money.”
Yasmeen wasn’t always for sale, and in this matter, the promise of extra royalties couldn’t sway her. “Don’t let her go soft. Give her a heart of steel.”
“But . . . why?”
The woman had begun that morning tied up and gagged. Now Yasmeen was going to threaten a man’s life to make certain it wouldn’t happen again, and yet she had to ask why. Shaking her head, Yasmeen started for the inn.
“Because there’s no other way to survive.”
CHAPTER 2
Yasmeen flew into Port Fallow from the east, high enough that the Horde’s combines were visible in the distance. After their war machines had driven the population away and the zombies had infected those remaining, the Horde had used the continent as their breadbasket. They’d dug mines and stripped the forests. Machines performed most of the work—and what the machines couldn’t do was done by Horde workers living in enormous walled compounds scattered across Europe, while soldiers crushed any New Worlder’s attempt to reclaim the land.
But thirty years ago, Port Fallow had been established as a small hideaway for pirates and smugglers on the ruins of Amsterdam, and had boomed into a small city when the Horde hadn’t bothered to crush it. Either they hadn’t considered the city a threat, or they hadn’t been able to afford the effort. Yasmeen suspected it was the latter. Only fifty years ago, a plague had decimated the Horde population, including those living in the walled compounds. A rebellion within the Horde had been gaining in popularity for years and, after the plague, had increased in strength from one end of the empire to the other. Now, the Horde was simply holding on to what they still had, not reclaiming what they’d lost—whether that loss was a small piece of land like Port Fallow or the entire British Isles. No doubt that in the coming years, more pieces would come out from under Horde control.
Just as well. A five-hundred-year reign was long enough for any empire. Yasmeen would be glad to see them gone.
But then, she’d be glad to see a lot of people gone—and currently, Franz Kessler was at the top of her list.
It wouldn’t be difficult to find him. Port Fallow contained three distinct sections between the harbor and the city wall, arranged in increasing semicircles and divided by old Amsterdam’s canals: the docks and warehouses between the harbor and the first canal, with the necessary taverns, inns, and bawdyrooms; the large residences between the first and second canals, where the established “families” of Port Fallow made their homes; and beyond the second and third canals, the small flats and shacks where everyone else lived. Kessler’s home lay in the second, wealthy ring of residences, and he sometimes ventured into the first ring—but he’d never run toward the shacks, and only an idiot would try to climb the wall. Few zombies stumbled up to Fladstrand, but not so here. The plains beyond the town teemed with the ravenous creatures, and gunmen continually monitored the city’s high walls.
The harbor offered a better possibility for escape, but Yasmeen wasn’t concerned. Though dozens of boats and airships were anchored at Port Fallow, not a single one could outrun Lady Corsair.
And though she could identify most of them, only one made her glad to see it: Vesuvius. Mad Machen’s blackwood pirate ship had been anchored apart from the others, near the south dock. Yasmeen ordered Lady Corsair to be tethered at the same dock. She leaned over the airship’s railing, hoping to see Mad Machen on his decks. A giant of a man, he was always easy to spot—but he wasn’t in sight. She caught the attention of his quartermaster, instea
d, which suited her just as well. Yasmeen liked Barker almost as she much as his captain. With a few signals, she arranged to meet with him.
Quickly, she descended into the madness of Port Fallow’s busy dockside. Men loaded lorries that waited with idling engines and rattling frames. Small carts puttered by, the drivers ceaselessly honking a warning to get out of their way, and rickshaws weaved between the foot traffic. A messenger on an autogyro landed lightly beside a stack of crates, huffing from the exertion of spinning the rotor pedals. Travelers waiting for their boarding calls huddled together around their baggage, while sailors and urchins watched them for a drop in their guard and an opportunity to snatch a purse or a trunk. Food peddlers rolled squeaky wagons, shouting their prices and wares.
In Port Fallow, Yasmeen’s presence didn’t make anyone run for their homes, but most recognized her and knew enough to be wary. She lit a cigarillo to combat the ever-present stink of fish and oil, and waited for Barker to row in from Vesuvius. His launch cut through the yellow scum that foamed on the water and clung to the dock posts.
Disgusting, but at least the scum kept the sharks away. In many harbors in the North Sea, a man couldn’t risk manning such a small boat.
His black hair hidden beneath a woolen cap, Barker tied off the launch and leapt onto the dock, approaching her with a wide grin. “Captain Corsair! Just the woman I’d hoped to see. You owe me a drink.”
Possibly. Yasmeen made so many bets with him, she couldn’t keep track. “Why?”
“You said that if I ever lost a finger, I’d cry like a baby. But I didn’t. I cried like a man.”
Yasmeen frowned and glanced at his hands. Obligingly, he pulled off his left glove, revealing a shining, mechanical pinky finger. The brown skin around the prosthetic had a reddish hue to it. Still healing.
She met his eyes again. “How?”
“Slavers, two days out. I caught a bullet.” He paused, and his quick smile appeared. “Literally.”
“And the slavers?”
“Dead.”
Of course they were. Mad Machen wouldn’t have returned to port otherwise. He’d have chased them down.
She looked at the prosthetic again. Embedded in his flesh, the shape of it was all but indistinguishable from a real pinky, the knuckle joints smooth—and, as Barker demonstrated by wiggling his fingers—perfectly functional. Incredible work.
“Your ship’s blacksmith is skilled.” So skilled that Yasmeen would have lured her away from Vesuvius if the idiot girl hadn’t gone soft on Mad Machen.
“She’s brilliant,” Barker said. He replaced the glove and glanced up at Lady Corsair. “None of your men have come down. Is this just a quick stopover?”
“Yes.” Even if it hadn’t been, she wouldn’t leave the airship unmanned while the sketch was aboard. “I’m only here long enough to have a word with someone. We’ll fly out in the morning.”
“A word with someone?” Barker had known her long enough to guess exactly what that meant. “Would you like me to come along?”
She didn’t need the help, but she wouldn’t mind the company. “If you like.”
“I would. Which circle? I’ll fetch a cab.”
His brows lifted when she told him their destination, but he didn’t say anything until they’d climbed into the small steamcoach.
He had to raise his voice over the noise of the engine. “Why Kessler?”
“He talked when he wasn’t supposed to.”
“Is anyone dead?”
“Not yet. But he gave information to Miracle Mills.”
Barker’s frown said that he was having the same thought Yasmeen had: Men like Kessler and Mills didn’t usually do business together. Though plenty of art was smuggled into the New World, it wasn’t something Mills ever handled. If Kessler needed weapons, yes. Not a sketch.
The coach slowed over the bridge across the first canal, crowded with laborers passing from the third rings to the docks. Three well-dressed ladies stood at the other end, as if waiting for the bridge to clear of rabble before they crossed it. Yasmeen watched them, amused. Five years ago, the residents of the second circle had tried building bridges that were only for their use. That arrangement hadn’t lasted beyond the first week.
By the time the bridge was out of Yasmeen’s sight, the ladies still hadn’t crossed it. She looked forward again. Kessler’s home was just ahead.
“Do you want me to go in with you?” Barker asked.
“Just wait in the cab. I doubt I’ll be long.”
“What do you plan to do?”
“Find out why he talked—and make sure he won’t talk again.”
The cab rounded the corner and slowed. Yasmeen frowned, leaning forward for a better look. Wagons and carts blocked the street ahead, each one half loaded with furniture and clothes. Men and women worked in pairs and small teams, hauling items from Kessler’s house.
Barker whistled between his teeth. “I don’t think he’s talking now.”
Barker was right, damn it. The households in Port Fallow operated in the same way as a pirate ship. When the head of the household or business died, they voted in a new leader who took over the business. But Kessler’s business was in knowing people, and keeping those names to himself. No one could carry on in his profession, and he had no family—and so everyone who worked for him, from his housekeeper to his scullery maid, would split his possessions and sell them for what they could.
Seething, Yasmeen leaned out of the coach and snagged the first person who passed by. “What happened to Kessler?”
The woman, staggering under the weight of a ceramic vase, kept it short. “Maid found him in bed. Throat slit. No one knows who.”
He’d probably flapped his lips about someone else’s business, too—someone who wasn’t interested in just warning him not to do it again. Yasmeen let the woman go.
“So we turn around, then?” the driver called back.
If he could. She and Barker might have better luck getting out and walking. Carts, wagons, and people were in motion all around them, crowding the narrow street—several more had already parked at their rear. A steamcart in front of them honked, and earned a shouted curse in response. Beside them, a wagon piled high with mattresses lurched ahead, giving them more visibility but nowhere to move.
The short cart that took its place didn’t block Yasmeen’s view across the street. Her stomach tightened. A woman dressed in a simple black robe stood on the walkway opposite Kessler’s house, watching the pandemonium. Unlike everyone else, she wasn’t in hurried motion. She waited, her hands demurely folded at her stomach, her head slightly bowed. Gray threaded her long brown hair. She’d plaited two sections in the front, drawing them back . . . hiding the tips of her ears.
As if sensing Yasmeen’s gaze, she looked away from Kessler’s home. Her stillness didn’t change; only her eyes moved.
Yasmeen had been taught to stand like that—to hold herself silent and watchful, her weight perfectly balanced, her hands clasped. She’d been taught duty and honor. She’d been taught to fight . . . but not like this woman did. Yasmeen knew that under the woman’s robes was a body more metal than flesh. Designed to protect. Designed to kill.
It was difficult not to appreciate the deadly beauty of it—and hard not to pity her. Yasmeen couldn’t see the chains of honor, loyalty, and duty that bound the woman, but she knew they were there.
And she knew with a single look that the woman pitied her in return. That she saw Yasmeen as a woman adrift and without purpose—a victim of those who’d failed to properly train and care for her.
Yasmeen lowered her gaze first; not out of cowardice, but a message that she wouldn’t interfere with the woman’s business here—and she certainly wasn’t stupid enough to challenge the woman.
Releasing her held breath, Yasmeen caught Barker eyeing the woman with a different sort of appreciation. Of course he did. She’d been designed to provoke that response.
“Don’t try,” Yasmeen warned him.
<
br /> “She’s a little older, but I like the mature—”
“She’s Horde. One of the elite guard who serves the royalty and the favored governors.”
Barker didn’t hide his surprise—or his doubt. He studied the woman again, as if trying to see beneath the demure posture and discover what had earned the elite guard their terrifying reputation.
He wouldn’t see it. The elite guard earned that reputation when they dropped that modest posture, not when they wore it.
He shook his head. “She’s not Horde.”
“She’s just not a Mongol,” Yasmeen said. The Horde weren’t a single race—only royalty and the Great Khan had pure blood, and they never ventured far from the Horde capital. In five hundred years, their seed and the empire had spread too far for every member of the Horde to be Mongols. “Just as not every man and woman of African descent born on the northern American continent is a Liberé spy . . . or a cart-puller.”
His face tightened. “Cart-puller?”
“I am saying that you are not. You cannot even hear it without being ready to go to war again?”
“Because you haven’t been called one,” he said, before adding, “I wasn’t a spy.”
Yasmeen snorted her response.
He grinned and glanced over at the woman again. “Why is she here? No one in Port Fallow is Horde royalty.”
“Then she’s here to kill someone, or to take them back to her Khanate.” Obviously not Yasmeen, or she’d already be dead—but instead, she was forgotten. She’d been pitied for a moment, but now the woman was watching the house again . . . waiting. “Whatever her purpose, don’t get in her way.”
“All right.” Barker leaned forward and tapped on the cab driver’s shoulder before dropping a few deniers into his palm. “Shall we walk? By the time we get back to the docks, I’ll be ready for that drink.”
Demon Marked Page 36
