I didn't see the projectile from the second assassin until the crackling ball of orange light flew past my ear, slamming into a wrought iron post that held a glass-pane gas lamp. My ear felt singed.
To my watching horror, the post turned to slag where the projectile had hit. The upper half slumped over, releasing the gas lamp from the hook to shatter against the street. The orange ball of goo stuck to the post looked like molten iron, steaming hot and hissing.
Hiding in my carriage wouldn't save me. I fled down the street, checking over my shoulder for my pursuers. The assassin with the crossbow meandered after me. I didn't see the second, so I assumed he'd moved to a side street, or was recharging whatever weapon he'd fired.
My assumption nearly got me killed when the second assassin appeared out of an alleyway, not twenty feet from my spot. I recognized the birdcage chest, though I had no idea how it'd gotten ahead of me. I made a hard turn as it pointed its arm in my direction. The end, where the hand should have been, was a hole, cracking with energy.
When the tube turned bright orange, I threw myself to the street. The burning projectile passed close enough to my leg that I cried out in pain, before the burning object flew into an alleyway, splattering long ways on a brick wall, eating at the stone like acid.
Trapped between the two assassins, I ran towards my carriage, deciding a crossbow bolt was more agreeable than being hit with a ball of molten iron. The first assassin prepared its crossbow, while I aimed my repeating pistol.
I fired first, and my shot exploded the crossbow, sending the bolt flying into the air. The assassin lurched towards me, but I ran around him, back to the steam carriage.
The lamp post still smoldered, giving me an idea. I scooped up a piece of the wrought iron that had a hunk of molten orange goo on it. Though the burning metal was a foot away from my hand, I wasn't sure how long I could hold it. My hand felt like I had placed it into a furnace.
With the empty assassins closing on my position, I climbed onto the steam engine, spun open the steam chamber, and dumped the piece of wrought iron into the water. Steam exploded off the surface, burning my neck. I slammed the lid and tightened the latch, right as an empty assassin reached the carriage.
I jumped off and ran down the alleyway, hoping to draw it away until I could circle back around and get into my steam carriage, which hopefully had reached steam with the addition of the molten iron to the water.
From a patch of darkness, a metal hand snagged me, pulling me into its embrace. The assassin struck me with its shattered crossbow, trying to batter me into submission. As I struggled, I saw the familiar glow of the second assassin on the other end of the street. Trapped in place, I was an easy target for the shot. Its arm crackled with implied doom.
Pulling as hard as I could did nothing against this creature made of junk and wires. The orange glow gathered at the other end of the street, dispelling the darkness like a luminous wave. The assassins had me trapped.
When the assassin fired, I pushed rather than pulled, spinning my captor around to use as a shield. I had to hope he was solid enough to save me.
The blast knocked us both backwards. Luckily, we landed on a pile of rubbish or I'd have been knocked unconscious. The impact made it release my hand, and I scrambled from under the burning creature.
The first assassin lay on its back, limbs flailing like a flipped beetle’s, the molten ball sinking through its chest. I had the impression, however brief, of filigree eyes and bent brass joints. The creature was so hastily assembled I could hardly believe it could move, let alone hunt me with ruthless efficiency. The only thing that let me know these empty assassins were more than they seemed was that the molten ball seemed to be sinking through the empty space in its chest, rather than falling directly onto the cobblestones. The unexpected, and completely invisible solidity, had saved me from being hit by the burning projectile.
I ran directly at the second assassin, hoping for a slow recharge. It hesitated at my approach, caught between aiming and trying to apprehend me.
Its indecision was my boon. I dodged past and made it to my steam carriage, sliding into the driver's seat.
After slamming the speed lever into place, I lurched against the steering wheel as the carriage burst forward. I would have a bruise later from the impact, but ignored the pain to concentrate on escaping.
I opened the door to lean my head out to check for the assassin, finding the street empty. When I turned back, slamming the door shut, the assassin was ahead of me, aiming its weaponized arm in my direction.
It crackled with energy. I increased my speed to close the gap.
As the first speck of orange formed, I hit the assassin with the steam carriage. The creature flew through the air and bounced across the street like a rag doll. I slid the carriage to a stop.
The assassin lay in a tangled heap. I watched for a minute before getting out. I had to know what it was.
I approached from the side. The orifice at the end of its arm was pitch-black. At the first sign of a crackle, I'd run back to the steam carriage.
The assassin made little movements, head twitching, limbs jerking, like an animal in its final death throes.
"Do you speak?" I asked.
A voice clicked out a response, "Yes."
"Did Emperor Paul send you?" I asked.
The answer it gave shocked me. "Emperor Paul is dead."
I didn't know what to think. I’d despised the man, but he was the Emperor of Russia, so a piece of me mourned his passing, though mostly I worried about my son. When a ruler died, his supporters became easy targets.
"Who leads the empire? Is it his son, Alexander? Or have the nobles installed his younger brother Constantine instead?"
The empty assassin said nothing. I kicked its lifeless boot.
"What are you?" I asked.
"We follow the Winged One."
"How did you get here?" I demanded. "How did you get around me? Each time you moved faster than I could fathom. How did you do that?"
Only faint clicking issued from its mouth. I leaned closer, careful not to move within reach of its other arm.
The clicking was coming not from its mouth but the weapon on its arm. No energy was coming from it, but I fathomed it was much like a steam engine with no place to release its energy. I was standing right on top of an explosion.
Chapter Seven
Fire. Enveloping flame, wrapping around my body like a cloak of death.
These were my thoughts as I ran back to the carriage, boots skidding on stone. I didn't have time to figure out how to make the vehicle move backwards, so I jammed the lever forward and sped around the fallen assassin.
A few seconds after I passed, an explosion rocked the street, sending a ball of crimson smoke into the sky. A moment later, pieces of the Empty Man rained onto my carriage with dull thuds. I kept driving to avoid the certain questions that would follow.
With death behind me, my thoughts quickly wandered. My darling Pavel, I pray you are safe. My role in Catherine's coup had kept him in danger while he was in Emperor Paul's court, even though Catherine was Paul's mother. Not that I favored Emperor Paul. He was a petty man with a capricious cruel streak.
The identity of the Winged One was another matter. I might have blown it off as a bizarre pseudonym, except for the presence of the Empty Men. The creature had known about Emperor Paul, announcing his death with a grim certainty. I had no doubt that it wasn't true.
Maybe the Binghams were right to fear Russia, if it had resorted to consorting with beings from other realms. My recent encounters with Koschei could be dismissed as plausible. The life-giving powder that Franklin created indicated such beings could be mere mortal men, their sanity stretched by the ever-expanding horizon of immortality.
Beings of energy disguised with found junk and firing balls of molten iron were hard to dismiss as creatures on the spectrum of humanity. There could be no doubt that the supernatural was involved.
Which led back to th
e headless and bloodless victim we'd visited earlier. Were the Empty Men somehow involved with that murder? I doubted it. They seemed unrelated, but I wasn't ready to dismiss it completely.
Distracted by my thoughts, I almost drove past the Patriot Letters without noticing the damage. The front window had been smashed.
I left the carriage idling and investigated the damage. The act had clearly been incited by the Alien and Sedition Act, maybe even by those women who had accosted me upon leaving my residence. Those that purport to oppose villainy often resort to its dark arts to further their ends.
The grass cracked beneath my boots as I searched through my shop. I dared not spark a lamp, even in this late hour, for fear of drawing notice.
Mixed amid the broken glass was shredded paper, the test pamphlets I'd made a few weeks ago ripped into useless pieces. I chuckled with the knowledge that I'd thwarted their destruction by failing to run a viable business.
The printing press in back had been left relatively unharmed. They'd smashed the window, cut up some pamphlets, and left before a constable could arrive. They were leaving a message that said Get Out of Town.
I wasn't even tempted this time. I'd decided to stay, no matter how bad it got, to make things right. Running wasn't an option. Ideas and stratagems formed in my head like blooms of light. I would need to fight, but I clearly couldn't wage a war of words from my shop.
Though I was exhausted to the point of delirium, filthy enough to gag a leper, and more cross than a Captain Tom, I resolved to relocate my printing press to my home so I could continue the battle without interference. The threat of the Women's Brigade Against Tyranny meant I would have to keep my comings and goings discrete. Thankfully, I'd acquired certain objects that could aid me in that endeavor.
At the estate, Ben had shown me how to disassemble it and put it back together. He'd claimed that doing so would give me a more thorough knowledge of the equipment. At the time, I thought he'd been playing me like a cat's foot.
The whole press was larger than the interior of my steam carriage, but in pieces it fit easily. Moving the base and stamp took a wooden board and a rope to pull it into the carriage. When I finished, I drove back to my house, punched in the code, and went inside.
A pair of glittering eyes greeted me in the darkness. I reached for the rapier, finding empty air at my side before I remembered that it lay in the carriage. A glint of gold flashed as the creature bounded to the armoire in one giant leap and sparked the lantern on the wall to flame with a strike of the flint.
"You scared me, Aught," I said.
"Waiting, Aught," said the golden pangolin.
"What have you been waiting for?"
Its irises dilated. "Kat."
"Why have you been waiting for me?" I asked.
"Order, for Kat to give," said Aught.
I wiped my forehead with an unsteady hand. "Right. Well, help me move the printing press into this room. You're now looking at the new locale of the Patriot Letters."
The little creature turned its head a few times as if it expected to see something different in the room.
"Never mind," I said. "Help me with this stuff."
Between the two of us, we made short work of it, though Aught couldn't help with the larger pieces. I'd brought the ropes and board I'd used from the shop, so getting the base back out of the carriage was simple. We moved the metal and wooden pieces to one side of the room since the other half was covered in the debris Aught had sorted.
Once Aught and I were finished, I moved the steam carriage to a nearby alley and shut down the engine. The brass pot ticked in the cool air as I headed back, noting the pinkish hues on the horizon announcing the new day.
Rather than stay and lift one more finger, I retreated upstairs to my bed. Aught made a noise as I climbed the stairs.
"Order, Kat give," said the automaton pangolin.
I blinked, wavering on my feet. "Right. Order." I waved my hand dismissively at the general state of clutter in the living room. "Clean this up. I won't be able to run the printing press amid the mess."
Little metal feet hit the wood as I stumbled into my room. I barely stripped out of my clothes before I hit the feather bed, sinking into its luxurious depths.
When I woke, sunlight was leering through my window. For a delirious moment, and based on the dim light, I thought I'd only slept a few hours. But it wasn't morning, it was nearly evening. I'd slept the whole day.
Still dressed in my nightgown, I went downstairs to the living room. I didn't recognize it. The debris from before had been removed, while a fully functioning printing press sat waiting, the type letters neatly arranged on a table next to the press. The only thing missing was a ream of a paper.
The golden pangolin, perched on the back of the divan like a gargoyle, awaited my next command.
"Thank you, Aught."
"Kat, you are welcome," it said, tilting its head.
The air had a tang of anticipation. Maybe it was the sleep, or the feeling that I was going to get ahead of my problems, but my limbs twitched in readiness.
I clapped my hands, announcing, "What next? Shall I compose a missive for the press, taking the role my dear old Ben did when he was a younger man in skewering the establishment, or continue the investigation into the poor headless gentleman for the Warden?"
Aught held out a limber paw, stretching it towards me. Something glittered in the glow of the lamp.
"What do you have?"
"Coat, found in pocket," said Aught.
"Yes, I had a hunk of dirt from the dead man's shoe. A seed was imbedded in the crust, indicating he'd been traveling near a farm recently, which is as useful as saying that a wagon has wheels, as there are as many farms in the area as there are people," I said, then wrinkled my nose. "Why were you in my pocket?"
"Clothes, cleaning," said Aught. "Closet, now hanging in."
"You wonderful creature," I said, clapping my hands softly. As I moved closer to plant a kiss on his golden pate, I got a good look at the object in his hand. It was a chunk of colored glass.
"That came from my pocket?"
Aught nodded.
"Oh Aught, you truly are a marvelous machine," I said, plucking the glass from his hand and holding it up to the lantern.
Aught made a clicking noise and stepped off the back of the divan onto the cushion. His scales rippled with disappointment.
"My apologies, my little bogatyr. You're not a machine, are you?" I asked.
He rotated his head in a seesaw manner.
"You're not all machine?" He nodded. "Which means you're part living." Aught nodded enthusiastically. The scales on his tail rippled in what I assumed was excitement.
If only I could question Ben on his creation, but that would have to wait until I could prove to him that I was not an enemy. Then a thought stuck in my throat like a bone.
"How did you know it wasn't trash in my pocket? You discarded the other glass. Why wouldn't you throw this out?" I asked.
"Sleep, Kat talks in her," said Aught.
"Err...what tales do I tell in my slumber?" I asked, as a heavy weight sagged my shoulders.
"Warden. Albert. Rowan," said Aught.
"Right," I said, distracted. "Nothing else?"
"Moldavia. Catherine."
My hand tightened into a fist for a moment. "Did I speak long on the subject?"
Aught stared back without blinking.
"Not alarming at all," I muttered to myself. Some things were better left in the past.
"Forget everything you heard, Aught," I said. "We have more important things to do. There's a murder to be solved, which will hopefully put me in the Warden's good graces."
I held the chunk of glass back up to the light. It was thicker than the glassware from my cellar, so that ruled out a mistake of contamination from Aught. It could have been a random broken bottle from the street, except it'd been found at the center of a hunk of mud, which meant it had been collected while walking through said mud.
A glassblowing shop needed raw materials to melt. The chunk was the size that they might throw into the crucible. I knew of three glass shops in Philadelphia. The first two were on the southern edge of town near the Schuylkill. The third was located on the outskirts.
Ben had given me a map of Philadelphia when I first arrived. I rummaged through my closet and produced the gift, unrolling it on the floor and using movable type to hold the corners down. On my hands and knees, I traced the locations of the shops. There were no farms near the southern ones, which left the one to the northwest. It was surrounded by forest and a couple of empty lots.
I slumped onto my rear. Not one of the shops had a farm near it. I studied the map further, looking for shops I might have missed, before I realized that the map was five years old. The city had grown since the cartographer had sketched on this paper.
The only way to know for certain about the neighbors of the glass shops was to visit each location. I thought briefly of involving the Warden, but he would only slow me down, and bringing the murderer to him would ensure his debt to me, or at least erase our past troubles.
I changed back into the outfit from the previous day, after giving it an investigating sniff. True to his word, Aught had thoroughly cleaned the garments.
This time, the dueling pistol and rapier would ride on my hips. I had no intention of going around unarmed while there was the possibility of encountering more Empty Men.
"Orders, Kat give," said Aught, as I adjusted the scabbard.
My gaze fell upon the printing press. In a fit of inspiration, I grabbed a quill and ink and scribbled for a good while—with only momentary pauses as the words spooled up in my head—until I'd composed a proper letter. After applying drying powder to the paper, I summoned Aught.
"Can you read, Aught? You can, good. Then set this up on the printing press. The first letter goes in the top left-hand corner. Don't worry if you make any mistakes. I'll fix them upon my return."
I'd need paper, too, but I could acquire that later. I almost went out the front door, but I remembered my earlier vow of stealth.
Birds of Prophecy (The Dashkova Memoirs Book 3) Page 5
