The Franklin Deception (The Dashkova Memoirs Book 4)

by Thomas K. Carpenter

  "But what does it mean?" asked Ben.

  "I wish I knew."

  Chapter Five

  After crossing the Upper Bridge over the Schuylkill River, Ben did not veer the vehicle onto Front Street, which would have taken us past my residence or the estate. Instead, he drove down Vine Street, which was the northern border of the city proper.

  He answered my question before I had a chance to speak it.

  "We'll be making a political visit."

  Our path took us past the Pennsylvania Hospital. The six marble Corinthian pilasters extending to the scrolled entablature beneath oval windows gave the building, and those like it in the area, a Roman feel. In both design of its buildings and government, America styled itself as the new Rome. I hoped that didn't portend the endless war practiced by the Roman Empire.

  When we reached the city center where the government buildings were clustered, I understood Ben's intent.

  We took the back way into the House of Representatives, climbing the red carpeted stairs to the balcony, the voices of the House members growing louder as we ascended. Ben had a knapsack with him, the contents of which I knew well.

  Previously, I'd been inside the House of Representatives during a debate, and my initial impression, that it was a battlefield of voices, contrasting with the more measured arguments of the Senate House, had not changed. The combatants on either side, trying to disrupt their enemies, or bolster their speakers, tapped on the wooden desks as a soldier would his shield before the crash of bodies.

  The leader of the House, at this time a Democrat-Republican from North Carolina named Nathaniel Macon, conducted the ebb and flow of battle from his seat at the head of the chamber.

  The Democrat-Republicans greatly outnumbered the Federalists, by almost a two to one margin, which should have meant that they controlled the agenda. Yet, despite having the smaller numbers, the Federalist side of the House seemed to have the upper hand.

  We watched the fray for a time, and nothing dissuaded me from my opinion that the Democrat-Republicans were cowed by the Federalists, who beat the drum of war continuously, stoking fears of invasion and enslavement from the Russian Empire. No mention of magic was made in the hall, but the hint of it was given time and time again, couched in phrases like unnatural weapons, and the stink of the Underworld.

  Eventually, Ben tugged on my sleeve and we exited the building. Standing outside, as government officials hurried past, churning the wheels, I gave Ben a stern look.

  "I assume by your worried countenance that you detected magic at work in the House?" I asked.

  "Most definitely," he said. "We'll have a hard enough time rowing against the tides of war with Jefferson distracted by Sally's death. I cannot factor the impact of magic, especially not understanding its source or purpose."

  "It seems our enemies are not going to make this a simple fight," I said.

  "I would do the same if I were in their shoes," said Ben, heavy with thought.

  "Will your efforts in the Thornveld sway these discussions?" I asked.

  Ben grew angry for a moment. "Do not speak of that in public." Then he softened, a wistful slant to his lips. "Apologies, Kat. My mind is weighed with the inadequacy of our plans. We've less than two weeks until the vote, and I feel we're outmatched."

  "It is always easier in war to take the advantage to your enemy rather than disrupt it," I said absently.

  Ben brightened at my words. "Yes, yes. That's it. The enemy has picked the battleground and has the advantage. Disrupting it has proved difficult at best, impossible at its core. My hearty thanks for your wisdom, Katerina."

  "No wisdom, just the old saws of battle," I said.

  He gave me a wink. "You really were a Colonel of the Russian Army? Not just an honorific title?"

  "Though I attended no battle, I took my responsibilities seriously, educating myself through books and at the elbows of experienced commanders. You can learn a lot with an open ear and a bottle of vodka."

  Ben nodded. "I must make haste back to the estate. I have an idea to take to Djata. Shall I drop you by your house on the way back?"

  "No," I said. "There's an ink shop nearby, and I wish to make some inquires."

  "Fair enough," said Ben. "By your leave, Madam."

  "Adieu," I said as he marched away towards the steam carriage, while I headed to the wharf. There were three ink shops in Philadelphia, a bounty compared to the monopoly the Bradford Paper Store had on paper.

  I'd visited Matlack's Engrosser and Quills once before, but the prices had been rather imposing. Timothy Matlack, the proprietary, had been the engrosser of the Declaration of Independence, and had since enjoyed a bit of celebrity when it came to work in the city.

  Framed in the front window was a replication of the Declaration, penned by Mr. Matlack as proof that he'd created the beautiful treatise of the Enlightenment. Women in bonnets and men in tailcoats paused as they passed the window, remarking on the document as if it were a priceless work of art, and in its way, it was.

  Mr. Matlack, a scholarly looking man with wild eyebrows, was standing behind a writing desk, scribbling on vellum. The scratch of the quill across the paper was a soothing sound in the hands of an artist.

  "Madam," he said, looking up with his quill poised above the paper, "may I be of help?"

  "I'm inquiring about your wares of ink. Do you sell India ink in this establishment?" I asked, keeping my tone light and friendly.

  "Well, of course, as any reputable store that practiced engrossing would, though I do not prefer that style of ink myself. How much do you wish to purchase?" he asked.

  I moved close to the table, strolling casually as if I was on a boardwalk in Paris with a sun umbrella on my shoulder.

  "Oh, what marvelous workmanship," I said, glancing at his page. "I've seen the lettering of Ludovic Rossiére, a master in Lyon, but yours is tres supérieur!"

  The proprietor blushed, rosy accents on his sharp cheekbones.

  "You are an engrosser?" he asked, licking his lips, a shine in his gaze.

  "I am amateur," I said, waving my hand around dismissively as if I did not matter, "but I enjoy the arts of good penmanship, the subtle curves of the letters, the shading, the smell of ink."

  "Ink," he said, remembering my first question. "You wish to acquire some India ink?"

  "Unfortunately, no," I said, resulting in some confusion in Mr. Matlack.

  "Then...?"

  "I arrived in Philadelphia earlier this week on an airship from Paris. I had the pleasure of meeting a gentleman who practiced engrossing during the journey. We spoke a few times, politely, but I was too shy to ask his name and he was busy in his work and did not ask mine," I said.

  "Ah! A budding romance in the skies! How wonderful that a shared interest in engrossing brought you together, but you do not know this man, nor where to find him now," said Mr. Matlack, grinning.

  "Yes," I said. "Now that I'm settled in my new home, I wish to meet him again."

  "And he used the India ink. Am I right?" asked Matlack.

  "You are a quick one," I said.

  Mr. Matlack tapped on his temple, giving me a knowing wink that made his wild eyebrows quiver.

  "A patient hand leads to a cunning mind, I've always said."

  I beamed a smile at him. "How wise."

  He seemed to revel in the compliment for a bit before remembering that I'd been inquiring about an individual.

  "You'd like to know if this individual came in the store and purchased some India ink," he said.

  "Yes, that exactly, I would be dans votre dette," I said.

  He put a hand to his chin, smudging a bit of ink across the angled line of his jaw.

  "Iron gall ink is the preferred material in Philadelphia, but I get a fair amount of requisitions for India ink. For some, I believe it's a cultural thing, despite the iron gall being quite superior," he said. "What did your gentleman look like?"

  "The lights on the airship were few and we were bundled
up against the cold. I cannot say how tall he was, but he was mildly handsome. Mostly though, I noticed his artist's hands," I said.

  The description was a vague guess. The only thing I had to go on was that the murderer was quite adept with a quill and ink.

  "Good fortune may be your sign today, Madam, for I believe, now that I put my mind to the task, that I've only had one customer this week asking for the India ink," he said. "He visited my establishment just two short days ago."

  "Did you catch his name?" I asked, hopeful.

  "Nay, I am sorry, I did not, but I can describe him for you. He was a well-to-do man in an expensive tailcoat and cravat. He had a pleasant demeanor, though I think I remember a bit of cribbage face on his cheeks, enough to give him a slightly rough look beneath his black hair," he said.

  "Yes, that sounds like him," I lied. "Did he arrive on wheel or hoof?"

  "I don't recall. He might have walked in, but that detail escapes me," he said.

  "Nothing else that might help me locate him?" I asked.

  He gave an apologetic shrug of the shoulders. "If it hadn't been within the last few days, I would have surely purged him from my mind. The head can only contain so much!"

  "Even this small bit of information is a boon. Thank you greatly, Mr. Matlack," I said. "I may come by again in the future to see if he's purchased more ink. Please inquire upon his name if he does, then by that, I shall track him down."

  "I shall do so, Madam," he said.

  "Oh, and please, do not let him know that I have inquired. It's quite unseemly for a lady to pursue a gentleman," I said.

  His bushy eyebrows waggled. "Then how will you meet him?"

  "I shall endeavor that we meet by la chance," I said, winking.

  He gave a hearty laugh, and I left his establishment after bidding him farewell. I had a description of the murderer, but not much else. I would come back in a few days, but I had a feeling that this person would not be returning. I would have to figure out another way to find him based on the description, which could describe any number of people in Philadelphia. The only thing that helped narrow the search was that he was a man of means, which indicated that the murderer might be either of the government or industry. My first thoughts ran to the leadership of the Federalist Party.

  Deciding that I would need to think upon the problem a bit longer, I took a stroll along the wharf to let the gentle sea breezes floating down the Delaware clear my head. The cobblestone street along the water had many competing smells: the salty air, coal smoke, fresh breads in the bakeries, garbage in the water floating beneath the docks. It was quite an adventure for the nose, with smells changing from one moment to the next.

  Eventually I found a pocket of fresh air and watched the airship yards across the river. Never before had I seen Camden so full of blimps and zeppelins, every one bristling with cannons. The assembled strike force would strike fear in any nation's heart and I knew that another, albeit smaller, force waited north of New York.

  America was poised and ready to launch its attack once the votes had been cast in the affirmative. And for the moment, it seemed there was nothing the Society could do to counter it.

  The day faded quickly. I'd used up most of it traveling to and from the countryside, and I made my way back to my abode. Laggard steps brought me slowly back, the arches of my feet sore from the long day. The warm sun left me overheated, and I fanned myself as I walked.

  As the flint boys scurried from gas lamp to gas lamp, sparking flame to life, the temperature on the street dropped quickly, leaving me suddenly chilled. Even the flames, protected by the smoky glass, wavered at the onslaught.

  The sky had been bright and cloudless all day, but now billowing clouds fell over themselves as they covered the city. To the west, the orange streaks of sunset painted the sky while a seething blackness crackling with lightning reigned overhead.

  As the winds picked up, buffeting my face and throwing my dress around me, making it nearly impossible to forge ahead, I sensed this was no natural storm.

  When a bolt ripped the sky in half above my head, releasing ozone and the sharp smell of incoming rain, I saw a shape materialize at the end of the street. Even before I saw the slender demon's snakelike face, tongue tasting the air in excited flickers, I knew I was in trouble.

  Chapter Six

  Before I could flee down the alleyway, a knee-bending agony doubled me over. A cry of pain released from my lips, though I was too engrossed in the experience to hear it. Rising up from the mass of prophecies, I felt a phrase sear itself into my conscious mind.

  ...when the storm-kin trades her seeds for time, then the wheel must be broken on the fate-cursed...

  The relief left me chilled and out of breath. The demon had closed the distance, not walking, but seeming to ripple through the air like a banner released into the wind, jumping forward in controlled fits.

  "A little late," I scolded the prophecies, before bolting between the two brick buildings.

  The she-demon made no hurry to close the distance, pursuing like a predator sure that it will get its prey. Rounding the corner, I ran with reckless abandon, my boots clattering across the cobblestones.

  When I came upon the new street, the she-demon was waiting. The she-demon had a sinewy grace as she strolled forward in her emerald green corset and leggings. Mottled ridges formed along the high forehead, which rose as she gave me a hellish grin.

  Even a crash of thunder could not startle me from my immobility.

  The prophecy had named her storm-kin, which meant she was a storm demon, or an Ala. Peasants in my homeland would ward against such a creature by placing salt and bread on the hearth, along with a knife with a black sheath, or the stub of a Slava candle. I had none of these, nor a hearth to place them on, so I ran in the opposite direction.

  The storm had chased the other citizens from the streets, except for a few I saw running from doorway to doorway, or pulling in clothing hanging from ropes between the apartment buildings.

  "Katerina, Katerina, you cannot run from me," said the she-demon in a hissing voice.

  Whether or not it was true, I would not allow myself to be taken easily, so I veered west along Chestnut Street. A coach and four horses flew past, right beneath the demon as she soared into the storm.

  Lightning blasted the ground as I leapt away, warned only by the hairs on the back of my neck. The impact threw sharp chips of stone against my legs and spackles of plasma seared through my gray ruffled woolen skirt.

  It felt like the storm revolved around my head. I had to squint as I ran against the cutting wind, the bits of rain like knifes against my skin.

  A high wailing voice fell upon my ears: "Katerina, your flesh will be mine!"

  The Ala demons were known to be cruel, destroying a summer's work with a vicious hailstorm, flattening the crops and spoiling them before harvest.

  A tree branch as wide as my forearm and as long as a carriage came whipping down the street before breaking in half on the cobblestones. The longer piece thwacked me across the midsection, knocking the breath from my lungs.

  Struggling to my feet, I searched behind, ahead, and above for the storm-kin. It was playing with me as if I were a helpless mouse.

  That realization brought anger, which wakened the magic inside. That buried light in my head glowed with fierce import. Except I had no wish to unleash it. The last time it'd been like pouring molten iron through my head, and my flesh was still raw and sore. I wasn't sure I could channel the power without irrevocably injuring myself.

  So I fled, running down the street until I couldn't go west anymore. The Schuylkill River blocked the way, while the Ala demon was keeping me from moving north towards my home or the estate.

  At the center of a park near the river was the Water Works. The square building had a three-story tower capped with a dome. Inside, steam engines pumped water from the river into its tanks, which fed the city mains.

  I ran to the Water Works for refuge, scrambling
up the marble stairs, past the Corinth columns. The front door was locked, eliciting a painful spark when I touched the brass handle. I banged against the wood until my palms hurt, but no one came.

  The entrance faced to the west, which left me exposed to the storm. I didn't see the demon but knew she couldn't be far away.

  Electricity seemed to surge through the air. I knew I couldn't stay exposed much longer. I spied a mill further south from my position. The huge wheel churned with water, driven by the flow of the river. I made my way there.

  Fearing to touch the brass door handle with my bare hand, I used a hunk of my woolen skirt. Inside, it was complete darkness. The storm echoed against the wooden building, and the scrape and grind of huge gears put a vibration into the walls.

  Faint light was coming from further in the building. I felt my way along the hallway until I came upon the huge room containing the main gear. Windows in the upper portion of the building let in enough light to see the outline of the room. The iron cog at the center was as wide as three men across. A huge beam spun, connected by an angled gear that led outside to the waterwheel. The water from the river was transferring its energy through the wheel into the gear, except I had no idea what contraption was connected to it. Judging by the construction, there had to be a basement, but I had no desire to be trapped below.

  The door banged open, followed by a massive gust of wind. A dark shape whipped into the room, materializing into the Ala demon like ink dropped into water. I threw myself behind a stack of crates.

  "Katerina," she sang, "I know you are in here."

  I was glad for the clank and grunt of the waterwheel on the side of the building, because it hid the drumbeat of my heart. My blood was pumping from the run across a half-dozen blocks.

  "Sssshow your flesh and I will be ssssoft and gentle," said the she-demon.

  A porthole in the wall led outside. I could see the distant oranges of sunset reflected on the flowing brown water.

  Squeezing myself through the hole was difficult, but I was able to wiggle my hips past and pull myself onto the ledge. Beneath me ran dark waters. The chute directed the water into the churning buckets ahead. If I fell from the ledge, I would be crushed by the wheel.