Birds of Prophecy (The Dashkova Memoirs Book 3)

by Thomas K. Carpenter

  "Are you sure you don't know him?" I asked. "This is a matter of some importance."

  "Madam...?"

  "Carmontelle," I answered.

  "Madam Carmontelle, are you a member of the Constables?" he asked, his mouth slanted.

  "No," I replied.

  "Then you should find yourself something more important to do than bother a man about his business. Good day to you," he said, before marching inside.

  For one brief and terrible moment, I thought about following him inside and killing him. The prophecy warned that my failure to do so would unleash rivers of blood and if Mr. O'Dell was the murderer, then my quick act would stop further killings.

  But I could not act as judge, jury, and executioner, no matter what the consequence. And it could be that the prophecy would happen regardless of how I tried to circumvent it, or somehow the words were being used against me.

  In the end, I resolved to find another solution to the problem. I refused to believe there was no way around this prophecy and I believed that Mr. O'Dell, if he were the murderer, could be stopped through less supernatural means.

  So I shoved my hands deeper into my fur muff and left the master cooper. I had other business to attend, but planned on returning later to survey this link to widespread bloodshed.

  Chapter Eleven

  When I returned to the steam carriage, I found the fires gone out, as I had not set the levers in the correct position before making my way to Mr. O'Dell's business. My pocket watch gave me an hour before I had to reach my destination. Rather than wait, I decided to make the journey on foot.

  The walk from the south side to the government center was not without its benefits. Unlike a few months ago when the lack of powder had left me aged and infirm, I felt as vigorous as I had in the flower of my youth. Except this time, I was more aware of the feeling. The young had no perspective on the gift they'd been given, but I'd had it twice before and lost it each time, so I understood how precious it was to stride purposely without unearned pain.

  While working in Rowan's Bone House, I ended each night tired and sore, but it was an honest ache, not the sharp edge of time, scraping away the fat of youth. So any tiredness I felt as I walked the many blocks felt like a badge of effort rather than an unwanted weight.

  Crossing Spruce Street, the bones of the buildings changed from sturdy residential to the grander marble fronts of government. The steeple of the State House soared above the city line, giving me a point of reference.

  My destination was the wharf near the water district. A few days ago, I'd seen a pamphlet about the launching of a steam ship with newly designed steam-powered guns. The ship was not within my interest, but its attendees were.

  I spied Benjamin Franklin, acting as his grandson, Temple, on the official grandstand. The whole setup had a military feel. Soldiers in Continental blue milled about the area near the docks while airships with bristling guns hanging beneath their gondolas circled.

  Ben was speaking with William Bingham and President Washington. I'd expected to see Ben, but not in a location of importance, since as Temple he had fewer connections, but it seemed he could not stay away from the levers of power.

  I made my way through the crowd towards the front, positioning myself at the egress. Ben saw me at once, his brow creasing with disappointment.

  He'd been speaking quietly with Mr. Bingham, but disengaged himself when he saw me, moving down the steps. As he approached he kept casting his gaze in all directions, as if he didn't trust my arrival.

  "I should have you arrested," he said when he reached my location.

  Despite the armor that I'd prepared, the immediate reproach wounded me. I jawed at the air, the intended speech deflated from his sharp words.

  "Speak quickly if you must speak at all." He glanced behind him. "I have pressing business."

  "What you said when I first saw you, right after you came back. You said that Philadelphia needed to be saved. What did you mean by that?" I asked.

  It was clear Ben hadn't expected this question. "You were always bold, but never this bold. Do you think me addlebrained?"

  This was harder than I thought it would be. "I know what it looked like, what happened with Morwen. Have you spoken with the Warden? He could shed light on that difficult circumstance. He was there, he saw everything."

  "I told you, I don't have time for this," he said under his breath. He seemed disgusted, then shook his head and spoke with his head tilted forward. "Yes, I spoke to the Warden. He defended your actions on the Brave Eagle. But his is not the only voice I listened to."

  "Voltaire," I said like a curse.

  "Yes, Voltaire. Who unlike the Warden, is a member of the Society."

  Ben's gray eyes searched me, as if he were trying to understand something.

  "Do you remember what happened to Adam Smith?" he asked.

  My first reaction was to immediately deny. I think my face must have wrinkled up with confusion at his question, because Ben let out a brief sigh.

  "I...I remember..."

  Ben perked up, looking at me expectantly. Events flashed across my eyes. Somewhere in my gut, I remembered Adam Smith, though I was certain I'd never met him.

  "I feel like I should remember something," I said.

  "Do you remember writing those letters?" asked Ben.

  "What letters?"

  He bit his lower lip. "I want to believe you, Katerina, I truly do. But I cannot take the chance."

  He started to turn away, but I grabbed his shoulder. The motion caught the attention of William Bingham. I tried to turn my body so he couldn't see my face and hoped my youthful visage would be disguise enough.

  "Wait. I know you won't tell me about what danger you think the city is in, but I have to tell you something, and maybe they are linked."

  The corners of his eyes creased. "If you must."

  "Like you, I believe the city is in danger," I said, keeping an eye on Mr. Bingham.

  "In what way?" he asked.

  I wanted to blurt out the existence of the Gamayun, but remembered Rowan's warning. To speak of them was to invite death. Just telling Ben could be the spark that would lead to the destruction of the city. I had to keep their existence a secret.

  "I can't tell you," I said. "I know that doesn't sound good. But trust me. I cannot tell you."

  "Then tell me something I can do about it," he said, his tone short.

  Mr. Bingham was taking more interest in us, moving to the edge of the stage to get a better look. The walls felt like they were closing in.

  "There was a prophecy," I said urgently.

  "What is it?"

  I beat my clenched hands against my thighs. "I cannot tell you that either, only that it says the city is in danger and that I...I..."

  I have to die.

  It was hard enough to think the words, let alone say them.

  "You, what?"

  "Let's just say that I'm a part of it," I said, wishing I knew the identity of the Architect, since he would be my executioner.

  "Katerina," he said with a frown, "I don't know what you're trying to say, but it makes no sense. Therefore, I cannot help you. As far as I know we're on different sides and you're trying to influence me in some way."

  Though I was not prone to acts of impulse, screaming would have felt perfectly normal at that point. I was about to blurt out the prophecy when Mr. Bingham appeared at Franklin's side.

  "Greetings, Madam," said William Bingham with a wink. "Is this one of your lady friends, Temple?"

  "An acquaintance," said Ben, flat-lipped. "We haven't seen each other in years and she was stopping by for a greeting. But I believe she said she had an appointment. We shouldn't keep her. Good day, Madam."

  William Bingham caught none of the hints and, with a familiar hand on Ben's shoulder, leered at me.

  "Well, Madam, would you do me the honor of your name?" asked William.

  "Morwen," I blurted out, trying to disguise my accent. I wished I would have pic
ked a different name, because Ben's nostrils flared.

  "Have you a last name or just a bit shy?" asked William. "I am a bachelor of some means. If you're not an amour of Temple's, I would greatly desire to court you. Might I have your last name?"

  My stomach turned on the thought of a romance with William Bingham, not including my disgust at the length of time since his wife's death.

  "I'm afraid not," I said, and before William Bingham could speak again, I gave a short bow. "My apologies, I must retreat. Temple was correct, I have an appointment to which I must attend."

  "Fare thee well, Morwen of No Last Name," said William, smiling.

  I put my back to them, determined to escape before William recognized me.

  As I fled, William called out, "Though know that I will pry your name out of the Architect."

  "What?" I asked, spinning around.

  They both recoiled, William in cheer and Ben with concern.

  "What did you call him?" I asked, trying to contain my horror.

  William cocked a smile, patting Ben, who appeared curious, on the shoulder. "The Architect. Young Temple is quite like his grandfather Benjamin, bless his soul, who was the architect of the Republic. Temple, here, is making grand plans for the future of our country. Why, I cannot believe the ideas he has for our direction and am pleased as a plum that he's on our side advising myself and President Washington."

  The coincidence was too much for it to mean anything else. Hearing those words was like watching the rope being thrown over the tree branch for my hanging.

  Ben studied me while William waited for an answer.

  "I am late," I muttered. "Good day to you both."

  A shiver of dread overtook my hands as I marched from the government square, feeling Ben's gaze on my back the whole time. If Benjamin Franklin was the Architect, then he was going to have to kill me if I wanted to save Philadelphia.

  Chapter Twelve

  The next three days I spent at home printing a new set of pamphlets under the name of Humble Justice while trying desperately not to think about the prophecy. Try as I might, the fate that awaited me at the hands of Ben Franklin haunted my thoughts, always right there whenever my concentration faltered.

  Aught was a good worker, taking my direction as we set up and tore down the movable type on the board multiple times. Each time I thought I was ready to apply ink, I would realize an error and have to start over.

  When the job was finally complete, a knock startled me. I waved Aught away and peeked through the curtains. The Warden, in his buckskin coat and tricorn hat, stood at my door.

  A quick review of my attire in the brass framed mirror showed I was nothing short of a complete disaster. My blouse was ink stained and torn at the sleeve. The light brown skirt I wore had a blotch of old red wine along the thigh and after a sniff, I considered opening the door to be ill-advised.

  I'd all but planned to ignore his dutiful knock until I heard his muffled voice say, "Katerina. There's been another murder."

  After patting down the wild halos of hair that had sprung from my head, I squeezed myself out the door, careful not to reveal the contents of the front room. I was certain the Warden would not approve of my pamphlets that contained scathing rebukes of the government and its Alien and Sedition Act.

  "How do you..."

  His greeting trailed away to disgust as his gaze fell upon me.

  "By the blazes, what spell has befallen you? Or have you joined a coven of witches?" he asked, horrified.

  Upon second review of my attire, I found a different impression, not one of a busy printer but of a crazed enchantress after a weeklong potion mixing marathon. I hoped to all good things that he didn't think the crimson stain on my skirt was blood, but the flinch told me otherwise.

  "I'm working on a project, Simon," I said, resisting the urge to flee back inside. "You said someone's been killed?"

  The Warden's wary gaze bounced between my crumpled dress and his horse, which was tethered nearby. I wasn't the only one wanting to flee.

  "May I come inside?" he asked, almost incredulous that he was saying those words.

  "I...um, it's a wreck in there. I'm afraid there's nowhere to sit," I said.

  I realized the printing press was the least of my problems. If he saw the little golden automaton pangolin Aught, he'd surely think me a witch or sorceress.

  He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. "Banish my question from your mind. I came here not for refreshment but because another man has been killed in a most mysterious, and...well, a mysterious way."

  We both knew mysterious was as close to the word magical as he could get.

  "Let me change clothes and put myself in proper order. My apologies for my distressful appearance," I said. "Might I meet you at the location?"

  "The man's name was Fale O'Dell. He's a barrel maker, or was at any rate," said Simon. "His place of business is on the south side."

  "Right," I said, hiding my shock. "I'll meet you there."

  Back inside, I pressed my back against the door and moderately slapped my head against the heavy wood. The thud was surprisingly reassuring.

  The more I tried to escape the prophecy, the further it drew me in. Now, Fale O'Dell was dead, and I'd visited him only a short time ago.

  After the moment of self-recrimination, I hurried upstairs, took a wet cloth of vinegar to the worst of the stains on my skin, and changed into an outfit similar to the ink-stained one I peeled off. After a final sniff, I sprayed a bit of perfume to hide my poor bathing habits.

  Since it was the middle of the day, I had no choice but to leave by the front door. I'd already been standing outside speaking to the Warden, for all that it mattered. If the Women's Brigade Against Tyranny wanted to accost me, they would have their chance.

  Thankfully, I was left unmolested. I suppose those women had other things to do besides keeping sentinel outside my door.

  I caught a ride on a farmer's wagon and reached the cooperage an hour later. The journey gave me a chance to compose my thoughts on the matter. I knew instinctively that I didn't want to tell him I'd seen Mr. O'Dell a few days before. It would only make him suspicious and I wasn't sure he really trusted me.

  I also realized that it might not be in his best interest to figure out the identity of the killer. As Rowan had explained, though I wasn't sure I completely believed her, the Gamayun intended to sow the seeds of destruction through their prophecies. The deeper Simon got involved, the more likely it was that he would die. I didn't want to be responsible for his death, too.

  Simon was inside examining the wall of tools neatly organized on wooden pegs. The dead body was stretched out on the stones, a pool of dried blood around the neck and head like a crimson halo. His face was drained to gray.

  Next to Mr. O'Dell's body was a barrel in the midst of construction. The bottom half was bound by two iron rings. The staves, unsupported at the top, splayed outward like a wooden flower.

  The circumstances of his death were not immediately apparent, though the hole in his neck proved the main cause.

  "What happened to him?" I asked the Warden, who'd been watching me carefully.

  "It looks like something bit him in the neck," said Simon.

  "But what?" I asked, looking between the body and the barrel-in-progress. "It appears he was working on this barrel when he was killed. That means he was facing the barrel and thusly the wall. If he were attacked from behind, wouldn't the wound be on his back?"

  "I asked myself these same things," said Simon. "Which is why I came to you for help."

  The way his gaze lingered bothered me, so I walked around the room looking for anything out of place.

  "Was anyone else here?" I asked.

  "No. Mr. O'Dell works alone. He had a few apprentices over the years, but they didn't last."

  That bit of news didn't surprise me. He’d seemed an unpleasant man. Circling around the body, I came upon a screw-bolt with a handle on the end lying near the right hand.

&n
bsp; "I believe it was in his hand at the time of death," said Simon, still watching me. His brow was weighed with thoughts.

  "How was the body found?" I asked.

  "A neighbor stopped by to bring back a hammer they'd borrowed," he said, head tilted.

  "Had the neighbor seen anything?" I asked.

  "Nothing today, but the neighbor did give a description of a woman who had stopped by here a few days ago," said Simon.

  When my head whipped around, I saw the crease of recognition around his mouth.

  "It was you, wasn't it?" said Simon.

  "It was me," I said.

  Simon pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers, shaking his head lightly.

  "Must we do this again? Why must you always be in the middle of things?" he said, exasperated.

  "When I came to see him, I didn't know he would be dead a few days later. I'm as shocked as you are," I said.

  "Then why were you here?" he said, dropping his hands by his side.

  "You brought me to the other murder for my advice and for my other skills," I said, letting the Warden's imagination fill in the rest, though I knew this would practically ensure he would believe I had magical powers. This would surely cause complications later, but one thing at a time.

  "Some of that led me to Mr. O'Dell, though I didn't understand why at the time. I came and spoke to him, but nothing else. I can confirm without a shadow of a doubt that he was an unpleasant man," I said.

  "You learned nothing? Nothing you're keeping from me?" he asked.

  If it weren't for the Gamayun and the prophecies, I would have told him that Mr. O'Dell had known Albert Hold, the dead man from the first murder, but since that would endanger him, I lied.

  "No. Nothing of note. Other than the unpleasantness," I said.

  He didn't appear to believe me and I wasn't sure I would under the circumstance.

  "We should get back to the investigation while it's light. It'll get dark soon and I'd rather not walk home in this chill," I said.

  He frowned. I could see visions of the cauldron behind his eyes, but he shrugged and continued his stroll around the workshop.

  A door led to a back room with a cot and a desk. The mattress was ragged and thin. The desk was battered oak with nicks along the edge and a warped back. It looked like it'd been rescued from a flood.