Corsets & Clockwork

by Trish Telep

  Before, I'd felt he controlled every aspect of our relationship, and so I couldn't help but feel a little delighted that I roused strong, bewildering emotions in him as well. Pride flared through me at this realization.

  "I was. I cannot fight the Wild without harsh consequences, but I would've killed for you tonight, had they not stood down."

  Pure warmth filled me like a shot of my father's liquor, stolen from his study. "I love you, Pick."

  He squeezed his eyes shut as if I had stabbed him through the heart instead of spoken from mine. "Pearl. You undo me utterly."

  "Oh." It wasn't the response for which I'd hoped.

  "And now I must go before I forget my good intentions and remember only the sweetness of your kiss."

  Oh, to perdition with familial alliances and great houses. If he asked, right then I'd run away to the Wild court and let Father persuade Viktor to do his duty. No more tutors, no more lessons. It would be dark and dangerous, all adventure and mysterious glamour. I made no decisions then, though I had some idea that a confrontation was coming--between my parents and me, between the life I had and the one I wanted for myself.

  Lips still tingling, I opened the doorway and watched him go, my heart unsettled as the seas surrounding Ui Breasail.

  FIVE

  I met with my father's favorite the night I was to go questing for the archive. Somehow I managed to make intelligent conversation, though the boy was dull as an old meat pie. But I knew better than to attempt excuses; that would only arouse questions and give my parents an excuse to pry into my business.

  At last the interminable meal ended, and I escaped to my room. Fortunately, I still had time to lock the door, change into a dark dress more suitable for adventuring, and then open the way for Pick. This time, he reached through and pulled me across into the darkness. It was quiet tonight; he led the way down the long corridor to where the spriggans had cornered me, and then down another hallway.

  "You know the way?"

  "These passages lead between ... You can get anywhere in the city if you know where the exits lie."

  "And you do?"

  Pick laced his fingers through mine and gave a gentle squeeze. "Trust me."

  I must, or I wouldn't be following him. We walked what seemed like miles in the dark, interspersed with the faint glow of lamps on the walls. At last he stopped and produced his own token. This one was red, and radiated an infernal glow in his palm. He pressed it to the wall, and cracks appeared in the mortar, a different sort of doorway from the one accessible by his portrait. The door swung inward, revealing a dim room beyond.

  "This is the entry into the archives," he said. "You must lead from here, and disarm the glamours precisely as I taught you."

  "What if I can't remember which one to use?"

  "I'll remind you. I'm behind you, precious Pearl. We can do this."

  I knew Pick wanted to give more power to those who had magical affinity instead of blue bloodlines. I wasn't just rebelling a little; this could change everything. For the first time, I considered what this would mean for my own family, but I couldn't turn back now.

  I stepped through into the archives, remembering what he'd told me about wards. They had been constructed long ago when more citizens could cast a respectable glamour. Now they were remnants of a lost era, one Pick sought to restore. The ruling classes owned no particular merit or wisdom; too many centuries of privilege had spoiled the great houses. Now it was time to give the lower classes a touch of equality, magical skill in place of secular authority.

  "The first test lies up ahead," he said quietly.

  "I'm ready."

  And I was. My doubts died away. I set off with bold strides, my dark skirt swirling about my ankles. Five feet away, I stopped and first cast the glamour that would confirm the sort of trap facing me. I needed to confirm that Pick's information had been correct. In response to my whispered words, the runes on the stones before me lit with a sickly green glow.

  I traced the letters with my gaze and then glanced over my shoulder for confirmation. "It's the sigil for choking."

  Pick nodded. "If we set foot on it without first drawing out the magic, we'll asphyxiate."

  "I know what to do." I'd practiced this until I could cast it in my sleep.

  In my mind's eye, I unpicked the weft of the spell; arcane energies sparked against the dark stones, but to no avail. Once I broke the cohesion, my lightning swept in and burned it clean, but just to be sure, I cast another glamour to see if any residual remained. The floor showed nothing now but the dust of long years.

  "It's safe," I said. "Let's push forward."

  So it went through four more tests. The drills I'd run with Pick had prepared me well, and the glamours laid in the tunnels were old and tattered. No one had come to bolster these defenses in years--and why would they? My birth was an anomaly. No one could've expected the Wild to find somebody like me.

  Ahead of us lay only one more line of defense--the clockwork men. Between his ice and my lightning, we should be able to disable them. Yet fear still bubbled in my veins.

  As if he felt the same, Pick laid his hand on my arm, staying me. "No matter what happens," he said softly, "never doubt you are important to me. I didn't answer you before, because I knew I shouldn't. But you should hear it, at least this once. I adore you, Pearl. You hold my heart in these two hands."

  Then he took the hands of which he spoke and pressed his lips to each palm.

  Afterward, he cupped my cheek and kissed me properly. It tasted faintly of salt; even without arcane means of divination, my heart twisted.

  "What have you seen? Does something go wrong beyond these doors?"

  He merely stared down at me with the most tormented expression I've ever seen. There were those with the ability to foresee the future, but if mine ended here, I would as soon not know it. So I did not press him for more. In answer, he merely laid his brow against mine, arms around me. In the silence I heard his heartbeat, and beyond the granite slabs of the portal before us, the faint clank of the guardians. Taking a deep breath, I stepped out of his arms, spun and called the fire to my hand. The doors were hewn of heavy rock, graven with symbols in old Ferisher.

  "What does it say?" he asked.

  "Here bide the old secrets, buried by imperial decree. It is best to let dead things lie."

  "Do you agree?"

  If I did, I wouldn't be standing here. "Back up."

  Raising both palms, I slammed the doors with lightning, again and again, until they cracked and crumbled. A whoosh of air blew past us as the seal broke. Nobody had entered through these doors in so long, but the guardians still cleaved to their purpose. There were twenty of them in dull brass and mottled iron, all carrying weapons to rend our flesh.

  Though blowing the doors cost me more power than I'd cared to admit, I summoned the fire again and let fly. Beside me, Pick coated the guardians with ice. The twin bursts of heat and cold warped the metal, yet the monstrous automatons came on, lurching forward. One fired a weapon and something struck the wall beside us, cutting me with the resultant spray of rock shards.

  "Blow open their front panels," Pick called. "I need to get at the gears."

  It took more concentration, but I managed to do as he asked. My fingers tingled, hot like fire, and my lips went numb. My vision sparkled from the constant outpouring of magic; even when I'd faced down the spriggans, I hadn't pulled like this. But I didn't stop, knowing failure here meant our lives. These heartless creatures would run us through and leave our bodies for rats and mice, until we were nothing but an unanswered question in the world above and dusty bones down below.

  I ran as I opened their chests. They were inexorable, but not fast, and Pick laid down a sheet of ice on the stones, so their metal feet slid and they fell into clanking, crawling piles. We fought on, ice and lightning, until their mechanisms bent and shot sparks, grinding against one another.

  But I hit the ice as well, trying to escape the last two. I went
down on my knees and the creature lunged for me with jutting blades. The knives pierced my skirt, slicing against my thigh. The pain startled me so I lost my focus, and the Ferisher fire died. Pick had long since lost his ability to cast; his power wasn't as great as mine. Now we were defenseless--and the men were still moving. I crawled backward, kicking out with both feet, but my slippers were small and ineffective.

  Pick swooped in with a heavy metallic arm ripped from one of them and bludgeoned the automatons until even their gears stopped spinning. We knelt together amid so much wreckage and the shakes took me. That had been much closer than I'd expected when I played at adventure in the safety of my bedroom. He wrapped his arms around me and buried his face in my disheveled hair.

  "Are you hurt?"

  I nodded, unable to speak.

  "I'm going to raise your skirt and look at the wound on your calf. I won't do anything improper, I promise."

  "Other than lift my skirts," I managed to joke.

  An answering smile lit his starlight eyes. "It's an ugly slash," he said a few seconds later, "but I can bandage it for you. Can you go on?"

  "Yes. We're almost there now."

  He worked on me with efficient expertise, tying my leg with a strip from my petticoat. The scrolls in the next chamber should be free and clear from here--and if they weren't, we were as good as done. I was hurt, and I had no magic left. With Pick's help, I levered to my feet. He kept his arm around me even after I showed I could maneuver on my own, and we passed through the final doorway together. Beyond, in the dark, lay shelf after shelf of forbidden secrets.

  SIX

  Pick left me beside the door. Since he knew what we needed, it made sense for him to perform the actual thievery. The low throb in my leg made me wonder how I was going to explain the injury--obtained in my bedroom, alone--to my parents. But that was a distant worry, a low buzz of concern that didn't touch the pride and elation I felt at succeeding in this impossible task.

  Some moments later he returned, his pack bulging with ancient scrolls and tomes. I pushed away from the wall and turned back the way I'd come at a slow, limping pace. The outer room was still a mess; if anyone ever came down here, they'd know at once that there had been a break-in, but there was nothing to be done. I continued into the dark hallways beyond, which were now clear of magic.

  "Pearl," he said.

  I turned with an inquiring look. Pick stood with upraised hand, ice smoking from his palm, and anguish in his eyes. "What's wrong?" I asked.

  As he drew closer, I thought back to his exchanges with the spriggans, his conflicted expression, the declaration he'd made to me just before we arrived at the archives. After combining all the disparate elements, I knew ... and marveled that I had been so stupid.

  "I'm not meant to leave here. You're supposed to kill me."

  "No witnesses," he said brokenly. "That was the Wild court's plan. They don't trust anyone from the great houses."

  They'd needed me, and so they used me. They probably selected him because he would prove irresistible to a girl like myself.

  "And so everything you did and said was designed to gain my trust." I closed my eyes, heartbreak tearing me in two.

  "At first."

  "Don't lie to me. Not now. Whatever you intend, do it swiftly."

  I'd given everything, all my power, to circumventing the defenses, and then reserves I hadn't known I possessed to defeating the clockwork men. Now I had no magic with which to defend myself. Doubtless he'd been counting on that, saving his last burst for my demise. It was a wonder he'd bothered to patch up the wound on my leg.

  The long silence made me uneasy, so I opened my eyes. His suffering seemed so real, and I hated feeling sympathy for him. For my murderer.

  "I can't," he said, setting his bag on the ground.

  To my astonishment, he dropped to his knees before me. "Get one of the blades from the iron soldiers. Use it to gut me, for I deserve no mercy."

  Did he really think I could do that? I loved him, heartless liar that he was. "I know now why you took the name Pick. It's the weapon you used to tear my heart from my chest." I ruffled his hair.

  He bowed his head. "Mine too. You cared about me, Pearl. You didn't ask who my father was--not that I know in any case. You worried about my feelings. How could I not return such honest affections? I cannot do as the Wild wants, and so I'd rather die here at your hand than be hunted by theirs. Please."

  I was already shaking my head. Tears sprang up in my eyes at both the physical and emotional pain. My hand trembled when I rested it on his head. There had to be a way out of this maze. My parents would kill him for dallying with me, and I would be exiled if they discovered what I'd done.

  And the Wild court would execute him for refusing to comply with their demands.

  "We can disappear." The words slipped out before I fully formed them in my mind. "You, certainly, know where to hide in this city. We can find a safe place and study these texts. Surely there's something in them that will give us an advantage in the struggle to come."

  It might come to war between the Wild court and the great houses. The Wild would fight with glamour and the houses with foot soldiers, heavy weapons, and more clockwork men. It would be best if Pick and I got out of the way. Perhaps then after the smoke settled, we could come out of hiding and put some of our new skills to use. I had no doubt that with him by my side, I could do anything, even lead House Magnus, should it come down to it. But it seemed the cleverest move was to wait out the fighting and see who was left standing at the end.

  "You're willing to give up everything for me?" he asked, his heart in his eyes.

  "It's nothing I ever wanted anyway."

  "It may be difficult. We'll have to scrape and steal."

  "That will better equip me to lead," I said. "One day. If I know how the other half lives."

  "You're thinking that far ahead?" There was a touch of awe in his voice, as he gazed up at me, and for the first time, I thought I deserved it.

  I answered with a simple nod.

  "I know a place by the water. The Wild will never find us."

  "Come," I said. "We cannot linger here."

  Slowly he eased to his feet. "I will be your loyal man until death."

  That kind of devotion I did not want from him. So I cupped his cheek in my hand and kissed him, as he had taught me. "Only like this, dear Pick. If I ever rise to queenly stature, you will stand beside me, not kneel at my feet."

  "I love you," he said. "Beyond reason."

  "And I, you." Then I bade him pick up the bag and led him toward our next adventure. I had a feeling it would be glorious.

  Deadwood

  BY MICHAEL SCOTT

  "WOULD YOU CARE to read this, miss?" The young man sitting opposite looked over the top of his newspaper and smiled at the girl.

  Martha Burke blinked at him in surprise.

  "I noticed you were staring at the front page," he said softly, folding down the newspaper and resting it across his thighs. His eyes, she noticed, were a startling cornflower blue.

  "It was the date," she said, momentarily unnerved by his directness.

  "The date?" Turning over the crumpled newspaper, the Omaha Bee, he looked at the date just below the masthead. "The first of May, 1868."

  "I've just remembered that today is my birthday," Martha Burke admitted. She'd realized that there was something familiar about that date, but it had taken her a moment to make the connection.

  "Well, congratulations, miss." He smiled again, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "I'll not ask your age. My mama told me it was impolite to ask a lady."

  Martha dipped her head and smiled. She was sixteen ... or maybe seventeen. Her mother had always been sure about the day and month, but never too clear on the year or the place. Martha might have been born in 1852 in Missouri or maybe 1853 in Montana.

  "I'm sixteen," she said, surprising herself. She rarely entered into conversation with strangers.

  "No disrespect, mis
s, but you look older."

  "So I've been told." Feeling a touch of warm color on her cheeks, she turned away to look out of the oval portal at the brown hard-baked landscape below. "I wonder how many other sixteen-year-olds are spending their birthday in the skies over Dakota?" she said quietly, not looking at the young man.

  "Actually, quite a few," he said surprising her. Leaning forward, he lowered his voice. "When we touched down in St. Paul, I noticed what looked like a big school group boarding. Fifty, maybe sixty young men and women. One of the crew told me they were war orphans," he added, "heading out to a new school in San Francisco. They all looked around fifteen or sixteen."

  "I haven't seen them," Martha said.

  "They're riding Low, in steerage."

  Martha shifted in her seat and craned her neck. Through the porthole, she could see back along the length of one side of the sky-blue Transcontinental airship. It was one of the older single-balloon airships--the latest models were twice the size and boasted two balloons fitted with a ring of turbine engines. Originally designed to transport supplies across the country above the battlefields, many of the airships had been remodeled to carry passengers. The wealthy rode High in steel-wrapped gantries and glass bubbles on the top of the balloon. Anyone with money rode Middle in layers of carriages fitted to the sides, while the poorest rode Low in steerage in draughty and noisy metal containers slung under the balloons that were originally designed to carry freight. Martha had ridden Low only once; she'd never been so cold in all her life.

  "I would have said eighteen maybe."

  She turned, suddenly conscious that the young man was still talking to her.

  "I beg your pardon."

  "Eighteen. I would have said you were eighteen. That's meant as a compliment," he added hastily.

  "I'll take it as a compliment."

  Martha Burke was tall for her age--taller than most girls--and had passed for a boy on many occasions. It was safer that way now that she was on her own. When she dressed like a man no one ever gave her a second glance, but when she put on a skirt and bonnet and added a little rouge and powder, she was pretty enough to get attention ... especially when it was noted that she was traveling unaccompanied. Martha had learned to put a stop to that quickly enough. She had been on the road for almost two years, moving ever westwards, by road and rail and air. It was a hard life and it had taught her a few neat tricks and a couple of choice phrases for dissuading those men who wouldn't take the hint that she wasn't interested. She'd met a French girl in Boston who told her that the best way to get rid of a boy was to throw up all over them. She kept a little packet of salt tucked into her corset for that very purpose, though she'd never had to use it. She carried a tiny double-barrel dart gun in the lining of her hat and a six-inch steel-bladed knife strapped high on her thigh. She'd cut a slit in the seam of her skirt to allow her easy access to it. Today, she was traveling as a girl, dressed in one of her two sets of women's clothing. In a little valise tucked under her seat were her entire worldly possessions: a change of women's clothing, two men's shirts, denim trousers and a pair of men's steel-toed work boots.