The Franklin Deception (The Dashkova Memoirs Book 4)

by Thomas K. Carpenter

  Brassy nodded enthusiastically, nearly knocking the tricorn hat off her head. She held it on with her mechanical hand.

  "Dear me, that complicates things," I said. "The killer works for William Bingham."

  "The killer?" asked Brassy.

  I placed my hands on hers. "Say nothing of that, and yes, this Alden Bridgewater is a murderer. That's why I wanted you to be careful. And not an ordinary murderer. He can do some sort of magic, I think. And if he works for William Bingham, then it probably means he ordered the deed."

  William Bingham was the head of the Federalist Party. A man who desired a more autocratic government. He was one of the few people outside of Ben and I who knew about the presence of magic in the city, since his wife had been killed by the deathless assassin, Koschei, on the Brave Eagle.

  With Thomas Jefferson mourning his amour and not working on the opposition votes, it made passing the war bill even easier. But what didn't make sense was why Alden Bridgewater had painted up Sally with symbols.

  It also made arresting or stopping him more difficult. Any other person, I could have brought the matter to Simon and had him make an official arrest, but Bingham's protection would make such a thing impossible. William Bingham held more than the purse strings of government; he held the reins of it. After the events on the Brave Eagle, President Washington had been relying on the ardent Federalist for political direction.

  "Do you need me to spy on this Mr. Bingham?" asked Brassy.

  "No, do no such thing. Not yet, anyway. I have to think about what this means, and I'll send a note to Ben. He should know as well. Let us go back. Or wait, I have another task for you," I said, remembering what I'd been considering before Brassy found me. "Did you ever meet any of Chloris' acquaintances?"

  "She didn't have many, but yes. Once I was listening to one of Chloris' stories when a great wind blew in through the window and suddenly a woman with a lizard face was there. Chloris made me leave real quick," said Brassy.

  "Would you know how to reach that woman? Zentrii is her name," I said.

  "Yes, I heard that name," said Brassy. "I could ask around with some of the other girls. Chloris said a lot of things to a lot of people, maybe one of them knows where Zentrii lives."

  "I just need to know how to contact her," I said.

  I probably needed to consult my books on myth, but I thought I'd try good old-fashioned word of mouth first.

  "I know just the place to start," said Brassy, kissing me on the cheek.

  She scurried off, and I couldn't help but watch her go, smiling the whole time. She was like watching a barn full of kittens in a yard full of crickets.

  But then the nature of our business flowed back into my mind, turning my grin into a tight-lipped grimace. Though I'd only known Brassy a short time, I was quite fond of her. I didn't want anything to happen to the girl and promised myself to send her away before things got much worse.

  Chapter Eleven

  Though it wasn't really on the way back home, I needed to make a trip to 524-30 Market Street to ascertain the difficulty of my task. Convincing President Washington and his staff to move from their location was probably impossible, but given the hold Chloris had over me, I had to try.

  Along the way, I passed a group of Quakers marching in protest against the war. They looked like a congregation that had come straight from service, including a tall bearded preacher in a wide brimmed hat and neck tie at the head, leading them in prayer.

  They carried a few flags and a pine wreath. The group was as orderly and polite as any protest I'd ever seen. They wouldn't make even the smallest impact on the war effort.

  The Quakers had withdrawn from government posts a few years back, claiming the immorality of certain laws like the death penalty. Occasionally, they staged protests, which probably made their pious hearts feel righteous, but would accomplish nothing else.

  Market Street was a wide thoroughfare with ample room for strolling along the sidewalk. A brick wall kept the contents of the yards private.

  Outside Washington's house, I spied a pair of soldiers carrying rifles, standing on either side of the door. His residence took up at least five lots, with generous wooded spaces filled with oak trees surrounding it.

  The brick front was modest, considering the importance of the locale. Except for the soldiers, it could have been any house in the city.

  Evening approached, and as I strolled towards the Washington residence, flint boys in dirty caps were lighting the gas lamps along the street. Market Street was the main avenue through the city, so its lamps were tended first, which meant it'd not yet begun to get dark.

  I stopped in front of the soldier on the east side of the door, displaying a proper look of awe. The soldier's face tightened with the expectation of the coming questions, and I did not let him down.

  "How do you do, Soldier? Is this the President's residence?" I asked.

  "Madam," he said, screwing up his face, a reaction to my attire I assumed. "This is President Washington's residence. He and his wife are private people and hope that you will respect that wish."

  He said it in a manner that indicated he'd spoken those words dozens of times. His eyes were dead with boredom.

  With a bubbling glee, the words flowing from my lips in rapid fashion, I asked my questions. "Do they give tours of the President's home? What's it like inside? Is there really a giant bath in the basement? Are there really automatas that can fight forever and never die? Does he really have a private airship that can float out of the roof?"

  The soldier's stoic demeanor turned from annoyance to shock to confusion by the end.

  "Madam, I am unsure where you've heard these stories, but I assure you that they are patently false. This is the President's residence, not a laboratory of the physicks," he said.

  "If you don't have automata guards, how can you protect him from the crazy things I've heard about going on in the city?" I asked.

  The soldier grumbled under his breath and glanced to his partner on the west side of the door. "I assure you there are proper protections from real concerns."

  When Chloris stated she'd wanted this particular residence, I had wondered if there was more to it than just a bath. Nothing so far seemed to indicate the arcane in this location. Maybe I'd ask Ben to check with his gauntlet. Of course, I'd have to tell him about Chloris first. I would soon enough, but this was a private issue and didn't matter as much as stopping the war.

  "Fare thee well, Soldier," I said, inclining my head.

  The soldier did not reply.

  Content I'd learned all I could, I made my way past the residence at the very same time the front door opened. Given the short span of time between opening and recognition, I had no chance to escape without notice.

  "Morwen of No-Last-Name!" said William Bingham excitedly. "What a marvelous coincidence."

  Frozen in my spot, my stammer was all too real. "Mr. Bingham?"

  My stomach had dropped a good two feet. The last time we'd met, I'd given him Morwen's name, rather than my own, for fear of him recognizing it. I regretted that choice, since it would make conversing with him more confusing.

  "Yes," said William, moving uncomfortably close. He had auburn hair with flecks of gray. He was modestly handsome, especially for a banker, though his eyes were on the small side. "What brings you here?"

  "An evening stroll and curiosity about the residence of our great leader," I said.

  William's face went through momentary contortions as he took in my attire.

  "Why, Morwen, is it the latest fashion to dress like a man?" he asked.

  "I have it on good word that the women of London dress in nothing but trousers and riding coats these days," I said conspiratorially.

  William's face lit up. "How marvelous. You follow the fashions of London?"

  "As any good American girl should," I said.

  He looked at me askew. "But I detect a French accent."

  I straightened my jacket while I tried to think o
f a suitable excuse. The silence was unbearable. William's exuberance was slowly deflating.

  "Well," I said finally, "my father was a British diplomat and we lived in Paris during my childhood. I couldn't help but acquire the flavor of the country."

  William clapped his hands together. "Wonderful. What fortune that we happened upon each other again. After Temple introduced us last autumn, I confess—and forgive me if this is a bold admission—but I've had numerous thoughts about you."

  A long black steam carriage stopped on the street. An attendant came around and opened the door. The attendant was armed with a pistol.

  "I must be getting back to my home," said William, "but I would be honored to give you a ride, if you would allow me."

  I almost refused him, but realized that would be a mistake of etiquette.

  "Certainly, it would be a pleasure," I said, holding out my hand.

  William Bingham, being the high society gentleman he was, helped me to the carriage and then joined me on the other side.

  "Where shall I take you, Madam No-Last-Name?" said William with a cheeky grin.

  I didn't want him to know where I lived, so I stammered out a response. "The Franklin Estate will do. I need to visit upon Temple, anyway."

  William faced me eagerly as the carriage pulled away from the Washington residence.

  "May I ask what you do in Philadelphia?" he asked.

  "No you may not," I said.

  The refusal seemed to excite the Federalist even more. I knew his type. He wasn't used to not getting what he wanted.

  I gave him a demure smile. "May I ask a question?"

  He nodded.

  "Are we really going to war? It seems that's all anyone can talk about these days," I said.

  A shadow passed across his gaze. "Must we speak of this? I'd hoped to enjoy the company of a lovely lady rather than speak of political squabbles."

  "I have friends, and friends with husbands and sons, that will be sent across the water. I worry for them," I said, placing my hands on my crossed knee. "My thoughts would be too distressed to speak of other manners if this simple question cannot be put to rest."

  William glanced out the window. "I wish there was another way. I have no desire to see men die. But we face an honorless foe. We must hit them first, and hard, or meet the same fate."

  "Russia seems so far away. How will you fight a war in such a foreign place?" I said, sighing.

  "We have the greatest fleet of airships of any country and technologies unknown to our enemies," he said, though not as confidently as I would have expected.

  Bringing up the upcoming war with Russia had placed a weight on his shoulders. I was curious about the unknown technologies, but to ask would have been to invite suspicion.

  Feigning a reach for my handkerchief, I let the brass disc fall to the floor. William quickly picked it up and held it out for me.

  I mimed an incoming sneeze, shaking it off at the last second, allowing William to hold onto the ego disc for a bit longer. Then I took it from him using the fabric, brushing my fingertips against the back of his hand.

  "Something for an art piece I'm working on," I said.

  "Oh," he exclaimed, "how intriguing."

  When we reached the Franklin Estate, the attendant opened the door. Before I slid from the back of the carriage, William grabbed my hand.

  "Madam Morwen," he said, "if it all possible, I would like to court you."

  A wicked smile formed on my lips, not because I was intrigued by his offer, but due to the danger of my fledgling magic. What a surprise he would receive upon consummation of carnal pleasures. But that would require a sacrifice I wasn't willing to make since I detested the man.

  "Possibly," I said, before pulling away and getting out of the carriage.

  William stuck his head out the door. "Then how can I reach you?"

  "Send a letter to my friend Temple. He will make sure I receive it," I said.

  William brightened with a smile. "Fare thee well, Morwen. I look forward to seeing you again. Hopefully soon!"

  The black carriage sped away. I checked the estate for lights, but it was dark, so I made my way back home.

  When I reached my front room, I pulled the ego disc from my pocket and squeezed it between my palms.

  The sensation was immediate, voracious even, and I was glad I'd performed this investigation sitting down. I'd expected a strong emotion—men like William Bingham did not achieve their station without having an unwavering confidence—but the effluence of emotion sent waves of confusion through me.

  The last thing I'd expected in William Bingham was the sentiment of doubt. There were other strains of thought within, but doubt was the main course. It was a stew that'd been over salted.

  The other emotions I expected were also there: arrogance, perseverance, fear, hatred. The first was like the musk of a wrestler after a long bout. It almost made me gag when I detected it. Perseverance was slightly pleasing, not sweet, but filling like a good cut of meat. The fear was akin to bile rising in the throat, while hatred was as bitter as raw cocoa.

  Once I finished, I placed the disc back in my pocket and considered the man. He was not the villain I’d expected him to be. With such a strong outlook on the direction of the country, I’d expected him to have an unwavering will. Maybe that'd been his wife, Anne, who had provided such backbone.

  But how could I blame him? Events in this world were spiraling out of control. Only last fall, a group of prophetic birds had nearly dragged the city into a fateful apocalypse.

  William Bingham was only doing what he thought was best for the country. I couldn't blame him for that, though I vehemently disagreed with his beliefs and methods.

  Doubt I could understand, but fear and hatred were no places to make decisions from. Which was why the democratic system was superior to a monarchy. When one had a good ruler, things progressed smoothly, but when fear and cruelty intervened, then nothing would stop the monarchy from imposing their misguided will. The checks and balances of the American democratic style kept those raw emotions from taking hold too quickly, though in the end, if they swept over like a tsunami wave, then nothing could hold them back.

  This was what had happened to the Democrat-Republicans, who under normal circumstances would have opposed the Federalist march to war. Fear had circumvented their reason, leaving America headed towards a calamitous decision.

  Chapter Twelve

  Two nights later, I sat in the open window, my nightgown unbuttoned to let the breeze cool my burning flesh. The breaking of the scar tissue when Whorl-Star pressed my hands against the power source had done little to help my amorous thoughts. The last two nights I'd had vivid dreams, waking frequently in an aroused state.

  I was glad I'd made Brassy lock her door. In a few of my dreams, I remembered rattling a door handle. I wasn't entirely sure that it hadn't really happened.

  Not all of my dreams had been sexual, though. I recalled dreams about the obsidian castle with the alien tree in the yard. The raven was often there. Once, it was picking at a ball of string and flew away when I approached.

  In the dream that had woken me, I'd had the impression that someone important was coming to Philadelphia. I felt like it was information I should have known already, even down to who the individual was, but when I tried to think of a name, the identity of the person escaped me.

  I was watching the clouds pass across the moon, trying to remember details from the dream, when I heard a click behind me. The sound could have been one of two things, the second being a pistol cocking.

  "Aught?" I asked.

  "Kat, greetings," said Aught in her whispery voice.

  The golden pangolin was sitting on her hind legs on the bed. She was cleaning her muzzle, which had been the click I'd heard as brass hand touched against brass jaw.

  "How goes your watching?" I asked.

  Aught paused before answering. "Before, same as."

  I checked the horizon for the nimbus of morning
. It was still in the deep of the night. I didn't have to find my pocket watch to know that.

  "Why are you back? Did something happen?" I asked.

  "Yes," said Aught. "The bad wind came."

  "The bad wind—?"

  I swallowed my words as a gust knocked me from the windowsill. A cloud swallowed the moon, plunging the room into darkness. I fumbled for the lantern on the armoire, sparking it to life. Zentrii was standing next to the bed when the light bloomed.

  Before, in the clearing near Cutter's Spring, it'd been difficult to make out the storm-kin's features.

  With the lantern shining boldly on the demon, I could not help but notice every detail of her scaled face. Despite the scales, her features moved sensually. Each piece was like the underbelly of a tortoise.

  Zentrii's black eyes regarded me with curiosity. She wore a black flowing robe that seemed to shift like shadows over her feminine form.

  "Katerina," said the she-demon, and though my name was full of hard sounds, Zentrii was able to make it sound sibilant. "You wished to speak with me?"

  "Let me bring you something to eat," I said, moving towards the door until Zentrii hissed.

  "Don't bother with bread and salt. It does nothing to bind me. I'm not like your watery friend," said Zentrii, craning her neck seductively.

  "Well, then," I said, placing my hands behind my back.

  There was a tension between us, neither wanting to make the first move. I hadn't really thought the bread and salt would hold the storm-kin to my will, but it was always good to observe the traditions.

  Zentrii was twitchy. Like a skittish cat reacting to visitors.

  "What do you want?" said Zentrii aggressively. "I'm not a servant to answer your beck and call."

  "I never said you were," I said, sensing that Zentrii was anxious about something. I decided to test the she-demon and crossed my arms in an appraising manner. "I was only trying to decide if you were skillful enough. I know Chloris can provide what I need, but in you, the truth of the essence remains."

  The storm-kin hissed again. "I can do anything. Twice as good as that watery tart, Chloris."