The machine scooped up handfuls of machine parts from the bins and shelves and dropped them into the opening, like a child stuffing his pockets with boiled sweets. “Memory wheels!” The young man laughed. “I’ll build myself an army! Blow me a kiss, and you’ll be my queen.”
He sang a little song as he worked.
Bring a bowl and plate and soup tureen
And shirt and collar of velveteen.
If you clean and oil my brass machine
And blow me a kiss, you’ll be my queen.
More parts went into the compartment. Outrage overcame some of Alice’s fear. He was a thief! A common thief! She scrambled to her feet as the machine shoved more parts into its chest cavity. But then to her horror, the machine plucked Norbert’s little automatons from Mr. Smeet’s counter and held them up so the driver could examine them through the glass bubble.
“Premade automatons,” he cried. “Yours, my queen? I’ll be grateful. May I have the honor of a dance?”
And then Alice knew him. He was the ash-blond man in a bad coat who had asked Louisa to dance at Lady Greenfellow’s ball. He was the second son who had seen Louisa home—and stayed for breakfast. He was even wearing the same badly cut coat.
“Patrick Barton!” she gasped, then clapped her hand over her mouth.
Patrick’s machine leaned down for a closer look. His eyes were wide and wild. Clockwork madness. Alice wondered if he’d been infected with the clockwork plague before or after the ball and prayed it was after, for Louisa’s sake.
“Alice Michaels!” he said. “Well! I’ll be glad to make you my London queen, my luscious Boadicea, my warrior angel. Especially if you made these automatons. I’ll make you famous.”
A shot cracked through the air and ricocheted off the glass. It was quickly followed by another. Alice heard shouts and clattering hooves.
“Police always come in legions,” Patrick groaned. He stuffed the three automatons into his machine’s chest cavity, and it clanked shut. “I’ll come back for you, my Boadicea, my spider. Give my best to Louisa.”
With that, he turned and stomped away, leaving Alice in the shambles of the shop.
Chapter Eleven
Gavin leapt from his horse and pushed through the crowd of people that surrounded the ruined shop. Smashed wood and twisted metal lay everywhere like random notes flung from a staff, and the discordant smell of fear hung in the air, though it did nothing to dispel the crowd, most of whom were waiting for the chance to make off with something. Everything he hated about London was in evidence—dirt, chaos, evil-minded people hovering about. Still, it was pure luck that he and Simon had been only a few blocks away when the report came over the wireless.“Move aside, please! Police!” he called. “Police! Let me through!”
The word police always did it. The crowd rippled aside to reveal the demolished shop front. Gavin hurriedly picked his way inside, his black leather jacket protecting him from snags and jabs. He didn’t bother to remove his simple workman’s cap. Clearly, the machine had come and gone, but it might have left clues—or victims—behind. His practiced eye automatically picked out several four-pronged claw marks in the walls and deep circular gouges in the floor that marked out huge footprints. Gavin noted their size and did some mental math. The machine had been between twenty and twenty-five feet tall, the same size as the mechanicals used during the Napoleonic Wars, and that made Gavin nervous. If the pattern he had become all too familiar with held true, the mechanical would be armed with a number of dangerous weapons. He sniffed the air. Paraffin oil. Some clockworkers had begun experimenting with new, more efficient fuels for their machines. This was clearly one of them. Several shop shelves, what remained of them, had been swept clean, indicating theft as a motive.
A figure popped up from behind the counter at the back of the shop, and Gavin reflexively went into a fighting stance. The figure, a woman, brandished a crowbar. Her hat was askew and she had a wild look in her eyes, but Gavin recognized her instantly. His heart did a little jump, and happy surprise thrilled through him. He swallowed a small lump in his throat and dashed across the shop, where he reached out to embrace her, then stopped himself at the last moment.
“Alice!” he gasped, and snatched off his cap. “Alice Michaels! What are you doing here? Are you all right?”
Alice dropped the crowbar and grabbed Gavin’s jacket lapels with both fists. He smelled her perfume, a sweet, roselike fragrance at odds with the frantic look on her face. “We have to get them back!” she barked. “Now!”
“Get what back?”
“The machines! He took the machines! We have to get them back before he figures out what they’re for and tells everyone when he comes back to make me his queen!”
For a terrible moment, Gavin was afraid Alice was the clockworker who had destroyed the shop. She was babbling like Dr. Clef on one of his bad days, and her expression said she wasn’t quite all there. Then he realized she was just upset, a victim.
“It’ll be all right,” he soothed. “Just tell me what happened.”
“There isn’t time for that, you idiot. Let’s move!”
“Is someone going to help me up?” groaned a reedy voice from near Gavin’s feet. “Or am I to lie here until the scavengers strip my rivets?”
What Gavin had taken for a pile of debris on the floor in front of the counter turned out to be an automaton trapped under a beam. “Kemp?” Gavin asked. “Holy cow! Can you get up on your own?”
“Do you really expect me to answer that, sir? I believe Madam dropped a crowbar on the counter.”
“Quite a crowd out there.” Simon d’Arco stepped into the shattered shop. He wore a black coat and cap like Gavin’s and a large pack with indicator lights and dials on it. A crank stuck out one side. “Good heavens! I didn’t expect to see you again, Miss Michaels—or soon-to-be Mrs. Williamson. Are you enjoying your betrothal?”
“Oh dear Lord,” Alice groaned. “Mr. d’Arco, we must catch that clockworker immediately. We can use my carriage.”
“If you mean the one out front”—Simon cocked a thumb over his shoulder—“I think the mechanical stepped on it. There’s an awful wreck out there, and the horses are gone.”
“Damn it!” Alice shouted, and Gavin stepped back, shocked at hearing such language from a woman. “You brought horses of your own, didn’t you?”
Gavin asked, “Why are the machines so important, Miss Michaels? Tell us, and we’ll do our best.” He flashed what he hoped was a confident grin. “The Third Ward’s best will amaze even you.”
“I doubt that, Mr. Ennock,” she snapped. “Those machines belong to my fiancé. They are extremely ... valuable, and he’ll be very upset if they’re lost. We must recover them.”
Gavin found himself nodding. It had been a year since they’d parted, but she was just as he remembered her—furious, beautiful, and crackling with more energy than a Mozart symphony. He straightened the lapels on his black leather jacket. “We’ll get them back. I promise.”
Just then, several colored lights on Simon’s pack lit up. Gavin, adept at reading the codes they indicated, gave the crank a whirl and plucked a large round microphone from the side of the pack.
“Emergency message from headquarters,” he said to Alice as Simon twisted his head in an attempt to see what was going on.
From the floor, Kemp said, “Isn’t anyone going to—”
“Is that a wireless communication device?” Alice asked, interested despite herself.
“Yep. Agent Ennock here,” Gavin said importantly into the microphone. “What have we got? Over.”
Static hissed and crackled, and a ringing feedback noise played a note two cents above F-sharp. Gavin winced. Perfect pitch wasn’t always an advantage.
“This is Lieutenant Phipps, Ennock,” said the radio. “Put d’Arco on. Over.”
With a sideways glance at Alice, Gavin deepened his voice a little and said, “I can handle the problem, Lieutenant.”
“Put d’Arco o
n. Now. Over.”
Flushing slightly, he handed the microphone to Simon, who pressed the button. “D’Arco here. Over.”
“Remember that grinning idiot of a clockworker you and Teasdale had it out with last year? He’s resurfaced. At this very moment he is rampaging on Fleet Street with another zombie horde, even though it is broad daylight.”
Alice stiffened.
“Since you have met him before,” Phipps continued, “I want you to get down there and capture him immediately. Acknowledge. Over.”
“What about the clockworker that smashed the metalsmith shop?” Simon asked. “The longer we wait, the farther away he’ll get. Over.”
“You mean you didn’t capture him? Over.”
“He had already left the scene by the time we arrived. Over.”
There was a brief pause. “I need you on Fleet Street, d’Arco, but I don’t want Ennock going after that clockworker by himself. If—”
Alice snatched the microphone. “This is Alice Michaels, Lieutenant. I’ll go with Mr. Ennock.”
“Miss Michaels? What the hell are you doing on this frequency?”
“I said I’ll go with him. There’s no time to argue, and you can’t stop me, anyway.”
“I most certainly can. I can order Agent Ennock to kick you in the head.”
“No sense wasting time. We’re off.” She tossed the microphone back to a startled Simon d’Arco and turned to Gavin. “With that settled, we need to find transportation.”
“Uh ...” was all Gavin could say. For months he had dreamed of something exactly like this. He’d constructed elaborate fantasies about swooping into Alice’s life with some grand gesture that would make her fall into his arms, betrothed or not. Now here she was, disheveled and upset after a clockworker attack that he was supposed to remedy, and she was taking charge of the situation.
“D’Arco! Agent d’Arco! Are you there? Over!”
“I’m here. What should I do?”
“I told you to meet Teasdale at Fleet Street! Now! And tell Agent Ennock to get moving. Over.”
Simon shot Gavin a look, and his dark eyes were filled with concern. “Lieutenant, Agent Ennock has never operated solo before. I’m not sure that—”
“It’s an order, Agent d’Arco. Over.”
“I can do it, Simon,” Gavin said hurriedly.
“What about Miss Michaels?” Simon asked the radio. “Over.”
“If she wants to get herself killed chasing clockworkers, that’s her own lookout. Over and out.”
The lights on Simon’s pack winked out. He slowly lowered the microphone. Gavin wanted to leap into the air for joy, but he kept his feet on the ground.
“Well!” Alice said, straightening her hat. “You heard the woman. Mr. d’Arco, you should be off.”
“Give me the pack, Simon,” Gavin said. “And take the extra horse with you before someone steals it.”
“Listen.” Simon slid out of the pack and set it down. “This won’t be like chasing L’Arbre Magnifique through the Forest of Fontainebleau, or the time we fought those floating freaks at Furnival’s Inn. You’ll be operating on your own. I don’t want you hurt.”
“Right,” Gavin said.
“So. Good luck.” Simon abruptly caught Gavin in a rough and uncharacteristic hug.
Gavin’s ribs creaked. “Um ... sure. Thanks!”
Simon seemed to realize what he’d done, and he let go with a cough. “Miss Michaels. Fine seeing you, as always. Good day.” And he fled.
“I know I am only an automaton and barely worth bothering about,” Kemp moaned, “but if someone gets a spare moment ...”
“Was he that sarcastic before?” Gavin pulled a wand on a wire from the pack.
“No. Something was probably jostled in the accident.” Alice used the crowbar to lever off a chunk of debris, and Kemp sat up. “Can you walk?”
“I believe so.” Kemp got to his feet and staggered in a small circle. In addition to his having a shattered eye, his body was scratched and dented, and his left foot was turned. “I’m half-blind. I work and slave all day, and this is the thanks I get.”
“Go home,” Alice told him. “Tell Mr. Williamson what happened, and I’ll fix you when I get back.”
“I’ll be stripped to my oil pan, and see if I’m not,” Kemp muttered as he limped away. “Not that anyone would miss me. ‘Where’s Kemp?’ they’ll say. ‘No one’s ironed the paper today. Oh well. What’s for tea?’ ”
“Thank you, Kemp,” Gavin called after him.
Alice turned to him. “How are we going to follow the clockworker?”
“The thing is two stories tall. Someone’s probably seen it.”
“And it has a big head start. It could be halfway to Is-lington by now.”
“That was a joke. You Brits have a hard time with American humor.” Gavin waved the wand about in a businesslike manner. “Give the handle on that pack a few turns, would you? I need more power.”
Alice obliged, and several lights on the pack flickered weakly. “What does that object do?”
“It’s an extremely sensitive artificial nose. I smelled paraffin oil when I first got here, so I think I can pick up the mechanical’s exhaust and—aha!” An orange light on the pack gave off a steady glow. “Flip that switch there and help me get this on.”
Gavin winced as the pack’s immense weight landed on his back and shoulder muscles. The beating had been more than a year ago, but his back, crisscrossed with white scars, remained sensitive to sudden jolts. Simon said it was all in his head, but that didn’t make it less painful. He could see the orange light out of the corner of his eye as they picked their way out of the ruined shop, and the glow remained steady, telling him he was on the right trail. A thick layer of clouds covered the sky, but fortunately it wasn’t threatening to rain and wipe out the trail.
“How are we going to catch up with him?” Alice asked. “Run?”
“Better. That switch you flipped sent out a wireless signal. Our transport should be here any moment.”
Heavy footsteps thudded beyond the shop wall and came to a halt amid cries of astonishment from the gathered crowd. Gavin and Alice went outside, where Alice’s eyes widened. Waiting for them was an oak tree as tall as five men, a strange bit of green beauty walking amid the city squalor. Its bottom half was split into a pair of legs that ended in a tangle of roots. Fine vines of copper and brass ran up and down the trunk and wound around the branches. In the sturdier lower branches, seats and benches were carved into the wood. The crowd outside the shop had fled like ghosts fleeing a crucifix.
“What on earth?” Alice gasped.
“It used to belong to L’Arbre Magnifique,” Gavin said, pleased she was impressed. “A clockworker Simon and I captured in France. It’s partly intelligent, which is why it didn’t step on anyone when it followed the signal.”
“I see.” Alice paused. “How do we get up there?”
Gavin put his cap back on and whistled. The tree leaned down, bringing its lowest branches within reach of the ground and allowing Gavin and Alice to climb aboard. Handholds carved into the bark made it easy, and Gavin helped Alice settle into one of the carved wooden seats before choosing his own seat, one near a control panel and in the center of a series of levers, pedals, and ropes. He strapped himself in. The tree straightened with a stomach-dropping swoop that always made Gavin think of a glissando.
“GAVIN . . . GO . . . NOW . . . ?” the tree said.
Alice jumped. “It speaks?”
“A little.”
“Where? I don’t see a mouth.”
“Yeah, we haven’t been able to figure that out, either. Tree, this is Alice. She’s a friend.”
“ALISSSSS . . . LEAFY . . .” The voice creaked and hissed, like wind rushing through treetops on a summer night.
“Leafy?” Alice wrinkled her forehead. “What does that mean?”
Gavin started to blush. Then he straightened. What the hell was he doing? He had fought pirates
, watched his best friend die, survived a brutal beating, and faced down a number of mad geniuses who had all tried to kill him. Compared to any of those, a beautiful woman was no threat. Time to stop acting like a stammering boy. He put his hand in his pocket and touched the mechanical nightingale. He had kept it with him all these months, and never once had it been damaged or even scratched. It had become a talisman that kept death away.
“It means he thinks you’re pretty,” he explained, then added, greatly daring, “He’s right.”
“Oh. Well,” Alice said, clearly flustered, and Gavin wondered whether Tree’s remark or his were the actual source of her embarrassment. “Thank you, Tree.”
“LEAFY.”
“We’re off!” Gavin said. He worked pedals and pulled levers. Tree, responding to signals sent through the metal vines, stomped away amid a swish of leaves. Houses and shops rushed past them nearly as fast as a train. People pointed and gawked. Lips parted, Alice clung to her seat, her gaze darting in a dozen directions, and Gavin felt a little thrill at her excitement, as if he had invented Tree just for her. Through it all, he kept an eye on the orange light just over his left shoulder. When it flickered or dimmed, he pulled Tree around to change direction until the light glowed more strongly.
“Does your instrument tell you how far ahead Mr. Barton has gotten?” Alice asked.
“No,” Gavin said. “It only tells direction. And how did you know his name?”
Alice muttered a curse, the second one Gavin had heard from her that day. “We met briefly at a ball in the spring, before he’d contracted the clockwork plague. His full name is Patrick Barton.”
“OIL . . . MAN . . . FAR,” said Tree.
“You can tell how far away he is, Tree?” Gavin asked.
“YESSSS. BAD . . . SSSMELL.”
“How far, then?”
“MANY . . . SSSSTEPSSS. SUN . . . KISSESSSSS . . .”
“Sun kisses?” Alice said. “What does that mean?”
Gavin hauled on a rope and pressed a pedal. In some ways, it was similar to piloting an airship. He could feel Tree’s movements as vibrations through his own hands and feet, and the creaking of Tree’s joints reminded him of the sounds an airship made as it coasted through the air, but there was also a definite jolt each time one of Tree’s feet came down, and the overall movement had an up-and-down swing to it instead of the steadier glide of the airship. Tree’s speed and his ability to step over and around traffic let them make excellent time.
The Doomsday Vault Page 20
