Mechanicals

by Jordan Stratford

  “Will the war come here?” Celeste was not asking for her opinion.

  Helena closed her eyes, and spoke slowly.

  “I do not see it, no. I see much horror and loss, but the war ends at the front, though at a terrible cost.”

  Celeste reached out to touch her friend’s cheek with affection.

  “Thank you, Helena. I would so hate to see the city besieged. I did not wish to tax you so before this evening’s workings.”

  At this, there was a rapping at the door; the identical rhythm heard previously.

  “The others are here. The room is prepared, I had much time this afternoon. Admit them, if you please.”

  Helena bowed, and moved silently to the door, opening it.

  A rank of masked men and women, white robed with red capes, proceeded into the chamber. The first two each bore a large cube, wooden boxes painted white, parading into the room’s center and stacking one atop the other. Behind them, a woman carried a long silk altar cloth, embroidered with gold, and this was draped gently above the cubes. Items appeared with each member; an antique Russian bible boarded in gilt and opened to the Gospel of John; a censer of incense; a procession of candles in gold candlesticks, a bowl of water, a paten of salt, a vial of oil. When all were assembled in neat lines around the square, Celeste drew her sword, placing it across the pages of the open bible. She began in prayer.

  “We here assembled do beseech the grace and mercy of Almighty God, and the Wisdom of His mother, the Holy Theotokos. May our workings be favourable to the will of the divine.”

  “Amen,” came the response, in unison.

  “Sisters and brothers,” Celeste continued. “Our noble Order was founded when a simple Roman knight, riding to war, took pity on a naked beggar. Taking his sword, he cut his cloak in half, thereby clothing the man in warmth and comfort at a cost to the soldier’s own. The beggar was Our Lord in disguise, and he blessed the knight, miraculously restoring the cloak to its full length.”

  She could see some of the newer members clutching their roquelaures in pride at this.

  “The knight was named in honour of Mars, the Roman god of war. And at this hour war is upon us. We each have our allegiances to our countries, and we will do our duties, honourably, and without hesitation. However,” and she gave them a moment to consider, “the war will at some point be over, and the light of civilization and learning must not be extinguished. At war’s end, much restoration is to be done by women and men of initiation and worth. We must preserve our efforts for the enlightenment of all who choose it.

  “We do this by maintaining constant recognition of and communication with one another, and such service to humanity and the future trumps all oaths to crown and empire.”

  And with that, it was clear to each what was at stake. Their obligation to the Order superseded other loyalties, rendering every member effectively a spy. Very well. If they were to be spies, let them be spies for the preservation of the great lights of civilization. Their call was noble, their actions justified. Yet none dared take a full breath, as the tension of their circumstance tested each character.

  The rest of the evening proceeded in a more typical manner, with the presentation and debate of papers, instruction in arcane and obscure nuances of forgotten sciences. It was not the purpose of their assembly that endangered them; merely the fact of it.

  As the evening closed in prayer, the timbre of the room changed suddenly. Both Celeste and Helena looked up, then into the corners of the chamber. There was a clap, followed by another.

  A short balding man, a Belgian, if Celeste recalled correctly, was slowly clapping his hands in mock applause. A low throaty laugh began to growl beneath his mask, which he removed. The man’s face contorted into a rictus as the uncanny laugh and clapping filled the chamber.

  “Dear God,” whispered Celeste.

  The Belgian’s featured continued to distort madly, and in the brazier’s flickering light, shadows lengthened as the man became taller with a gruesome crack. Where the small cackling man stood, there was now a tall dark-eyed man with unkempt hair and a long nose, sneering disdainfully at Celeste. In shock, the members who had yet to depart pressed themselves against the walls, as far away as possible from the grotesque transformation.

  “Grigori,” Celeste stated calmly. “How kind of you to join us.”

  “Bravo, I must say, Madame,” said the newcomer, his accent thick. “Your little performance here was most amusing. Look at you with your nest of spies. How noble they must feel at their obligations to betray their homes and nations, to serve only you in their place.”

  “It is not me they serve, as you well know.”

  “Yes, yes. It is to the throne of high-minded prattle to which they bow. You just happen to be seated there, conveniently.”

  “And where might you be seated, at present?” Celeste added, anger flashing in her eyes.

  The man smiled. “Oh, give one of your dogs here a pendant and a map and I’m sure they can find me soon enough. A crystal ball, perhaps? Some trinket, merely flirting with the real power I now possess.”

  “Good heavens,” she cut him off. “Listen to yourself. You’ve become a penny-dreadful villain. You sound like no gentleman, sir, just some mawkish caricature of yourself. Tell me,” Celeste inquired, “what could all of this possibly be in aid of? We’ve seen this done before, and can do it ourselves. You are a member of this Order, despite my personal feelings which I am obliged to set aside. You could have come here yourself, and be welcomed.”

  Grigori’s countenance blurred slightly, an odd haze around him dancing in the light for an instant, before resolving into clarity once again.

  “I am indisposed, at the moment. And I understood there was to be quite the home-coming, which I dared not miss.” This last directed at Helena, who’s jaw tightened while her small hands became fists. “Tell me, Madame Blavatsky, how is your dear Teacher? Do tell him I miss him so, we used to have such great fun. In fact, you might mention that he’ll be reminded of our exploits soon enough.”

  Celeste steadied Helena. “I’m quite confident in our Brother’s ability to manage his own affairs, thank you. And quite the match for whatever mischief you’ve concocted.”

  “Oh no, it is a creature of his own concoction, I assure you. By the way,” Grigori paused, “have you seen the new one? She’s quite pretty. Callipygous, I daresay. Here’s hoping he’s not too distracted when old ghosts come to haunt.”

  Celeste’s expression did not betray her hurt, or her confusion. Grigori’s medium was weakening, obviously, as the Russian’s face and voice had begun to distort.

  “It would appear,” he continued, “that our visit is at an end. Sorry about the mess. I’m sure you’ll make arrangements...admirably.” And the Russian was gone, replaced by the short Belgian, who was grey and choking, his hands at his throat. A young blonde man, still robed and masked, was shocked into action by his falling comrade, and caught him as he collapsed.

  Helena’s eyes were shut tight as her lips moved in incantation or prayer, but the snapping inside of the victim’s throat resounded in the bare room. There was nothing for it. Celeste felt at once bruised and hollow. She rallied herself.

  “There is more than one war upon us,” she declared. “and we have lost not one but two members of our Order this evening. If he is your friend,” addressing the blonde gentleman, “then see to his affairs, and secure his reputation. Get him dressed, and let no scandal befall his family.”

  “But we must warn the Teacher!” Helena insisted.

  “Our course is set, Helena. We can send word to him en route, but I fear it will not be soon enough. We must trust in his abilities, as I know you do in your heart. As for us, our work continues unabated.”

  Celeste reached out to Helena.

  “Sweet sister, I’ve thought of a way you can help.”

  “Anything, Sister,” Helena replied. “I remain at your service.”

  “I think I should very much like to
borrow your husband.”

  Helena was shocked. “You know, I’m not entirely sure he’s even alive.”

  Celeste smiled, despite the grim events. “More’s the better. I need his name, dear, not the man.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Her needs addressed, yet unmet, Eleanor had settled into an asymmetrical domesticity. In general, she clucked and carried on as she anticipated a new wife was wont to do, pouring Avery’s tea, arranging his cufflinks on the nightstand. They would read together in bed, and she would kiss him goodnight, and while there was genuine affection and tenderness in his attentions, it was entirely platonic. While dressing, she had caught an appreciative eye, but she dared not hope to arouse any passions so far as he was concerned.

  The night before they departed Paris, he gave her a gift: a flat piece of dark steel, perhaps six inches long and half an inch wide, not tapered but terminating in an oblique, chiseled edge. It felt beautiful in her hand, though it resided in a black sheath of the finest silk, and tied to her forearm beneath the sleeves of her gown.

  “This,” Avery stated, “is capable, if delivered correctly, of punching through a steel safe, or slicing the sturdiest cable. And of course rendering the most problematic person...unproblematic.”

  “It’s exotic, and queer. And, I don’t know, dangerous. Thank you, Sinjin. It is a thing entirely like you.” She was genuinely appreciative.

  “It comes from Japan,” he explained, “where its manufacture and employ have been perfected over centuries. It is a rare and valuable specimen, and I ask that you wear it at all times. Even when sleeping.”

  “I shall, dear Sinjin. I shall. I promise.” She placed her arms around him, and felt safe, each new revelation or gift from him a kind of initiation into herself. She knew she truly loved him.

  Days later, she traced an idle finger around its shape on the inside of her sleeve. She had expected to find it odd, but its silk was of such excellence that it seemed to her a private extravagance. The journey by train was much longer than the one from the airship dock to Paris, and she wondered why, as mundane as her experience with flight had been, that they simply didn’t take another one to the coast, given that it was so much faster.

  “Invisibility,” Avery answered. He was again, as was his near-hourly habit, attending to the clicking brass gears around the knob of his walking stick. Between them on the rail car table were stacks of books and papers. “The railroad, while a marvel in the morning, was invisible by afternoon. Airships are still a marvel, and we travel with a modicum of discretion, given our stops.”

  “This morning? I can’t imagine a world without trains.”

  He smiled. “Oh, but I can.”

  “How old are you, really?” she inquired.

  “Quite a bit older than I look, I dare hope.”

  “That’s cryptic.”

  “I’m cryptic often, as you’re well aware.”

  “Forty,” she ventured.

  “Good heavens, do I look forty?”

  “Alright. Thirty then.”

  “A more flattering guess, but you were, closer at forty, although not half the way there.”

  “Don’t tease, Sinjin.”

  “I do not tease you, dear heart.” He looked momentarily sad. “But I am indeed far older than,” he raised both palms, “all of this.”

  “Well, surely...” She had to think. He liked direct questions. Dates. Facts. Figures. He seemed to find comfort in the realm of data. “Sinjin? In what year were you born?”

  “In the year of our Lord seventeen sixty-seven, in the reign of King George III, God rest his soul.”

  “But that would make you...”

  “Eighty seven, come Mayday, yes.”

  Her first reflex was to insist on a trick, or a joke of some kind. But she could tell by the hint of sorrow in his expression that he did not dissemble.

  “How is such a thing possible?” she asked.

  “Simply put, I made a deal with the devil.”

  “You would do no such thing.”

  “Well, you’re correct. Not ‘the’ devil, but ‘a’ devil, most certainly. And it was a deal I did not enter with deliberation, or much choice. Rather, I was young and tremendously foolish, and I–we, I should say–invoked something. We took an idea, an intent, and gave it form. We brought it into being, and the cosmos, ever insistent on order, removed something. A life. A man.” He swallowed. “A friend. But the scales were not tipped to whatever accounting I cannot fathom, and thereby my mortality was advanced a degree of credit, as you can see.”

  “But...but what is to happen to you?”

  “At which point, my dear?”

  “At any point. At the next point. At death. Will you die?”

  “I’m sure I shall die, and I’ve no doubt my wickedness will be revisited upon me. In the meanwhile, I have less time to make amends, and more for which to atone. There is work to be done, and undone. And thus...voila.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Think nothing of it, my dear. If my ways appear to you at times quaint, well, now you know the reason why.”

  “May I ask more?”

  “If you must.”

  “Are there others? Like you?”

  He paused for a moment, his expression inscrutable. “When I acquired my condition, I was not alone. Yes, there are others. Like me.”

  “The Russian?”

  “The Russian. It is his trail upon which we find ourselves. South, to Toulouse.”

  Eleanor sought to take it all in. “Is he there?”

  “Our destination is outside of Toulouse, a day by carriage, I’m afraid. But he is not there. We are to determine if he has been there, or if he has yet to be there. And from thence, to Girona in Spain, with the identical purpose.”

  “Spain!” she exclaimed. “But Mr. Hugo said Jerusalem. And Constantinople.”

  “Well recalled. These too are destinations along the way.”

  Eleanor was confused. “Along the way to what?”

  “To the war, my dear. To the war.”

  NINETEEN

  It would have been difficult not to get swept up in all the excitement, and indeed Blake offered no resistance. There was a crowd, and pastel-gowned ladies in bonnets waving handkerchiefs, giving farewell kisses to soldiers who flashed smiles and glinted brass in the spring sun. Sergeants barked and pretended to ignore the festivities, but there was a band playing “Cheer, Boys, Cheer”, and all felt more like a fair than the beginning of an arduous, and for some mortal, journey. The trains smelled of iron in the sun, and steam belched and hissed into the carnival atmosphere.

  Blake walked calmly in Landau’s wake, who was managing their baggage in shifts. Earlier that morning, the officers had marched their mechanicals up ramps onto flat beds on the trains, where they were lowered by crane, wrapped in oilcloth and strapped down with chains. The impression was oddly funereal, in stark contrast to the gaiety now about them.

  Price was shoving a gaggle of Blake’s own men into waiting railcars. One, a private who’s name Blake couldn’t recall immediately, had a huge welt diagonally across his face. Blake reached out and grasped the man’s shoulder.

  “Good heavens, man. What the hell happened to you?”

  The soldier looked left and right before answering. “Cut myself shaving, Captain.”

  “Don’t be daft, man. Tell me what happened at once.” Blake ordered.

  “You’ll have to ask Sergeant Price about that, sir. He insisted, sir.”

  “All right, I’ll see that I do. Dismissed.”

  “Aye, sir.” The young private disappeared into the train.

  “Sergeant!” Blake called. Price approached, stood at attention, and saluted.

  “Sah!”

  “What happened to that private?”

  “Cut ‘imself shaving, he says, sir.”

  “Indeed. It seems insulting my intelligence is the order of the day.”

  “Sir,” said Price, lowering his voice, “if it may w
ait, I’ll tell you more about it, though it does not gladden me to do so. Discretion is warranted, sir.”

  “Very well, Sergeant. See to the men. But I do expect a full report when we’re underway.”

  “Sir. Very good, sir.” Price again saluted and resumed his duties.

  This first leg of the journey, to port, made no allowances for officers. He had been assured that the train from Marseilles would have a car for the three captains, and in an act of divine mercy, that Cardigan would be traveling with the Scots by sea. But as the train began to roll under its seemingly impossible weight, there was no place Blake could converse with Price in confidence. The men were jammed together on long wooden benches, and the chorus of cherry-breeched knees opposite struck Blake as comical. Price navigated the car’s row of boots, indicating with his jaw the space between cars, and exited. Blake took the hint and followed, sliding the door’s hinged panels behind him. He clutched to an iron rail.

  “Good thinking, Price, although it’s a bit windy out here.” The blur of tracks under their feet was vaguely hypnotic.

  “It’ll get fierce when she’s got full steam, sir. Thought we’d get this out of the way.”

  “Well and good, Sergeant. Now, do tell me, whatever happened to that soldier? It looks like he’s been slashed with a riding crop!”

  “It was that, sir. Did it m’self,” declared Price.

  “Why on earth did you do such a thing? Punishment is to be meted out by code, on parade!” Blake was not pleased at this breach of protocol.

  “Quite right, sir. I was attempting to contain the situation, sir.”

  “Out with it, man! What situation?”

  “I caught him interfering with one of the horses, Captain.”

  “Interfering? Whatever do you... Good Heavens!”

  “Indeed, sir.”

  Both the absurdity and the peculiarity of the situation hung between them, as the train’s rattle picked up tempo.

  “Really. One hears of such things, of course, but one never actually expects to–I say! Pray God you tell me it was a mare, at least!”