A Soul's Worth

by T. S. Barnett

  “It’s just as well if people think so, honestly,” Warren chuckled. “I’ll have to practice my Irish accent.”

  “Nah, nah,” Owen said, causing the tailor to stumble slightly as he turned to face them without warning. “Better if you’re the silent type eh? I can make a right proper angry face if anyone tries to make ye talk to ‘em.”

  “I appreciate it,” Warren said with a small smile, “but I’m afraid I’ll have to make conversation. Do feel free to use your angry face whenever you like, though. I’d hate for you to get out of practice.”

  “Aye. I’ll keep workin’ on it.” Owen grunted at the tailor as he swatted the Irishman back into place. Warren felt quite certain that he had made the right choice in bodyguards.

  Warren found Ben that afternoon sat in the study with his arm removed and lying on the desk, where Cam sat bent over it with its aperture eyes only blue pinpoints. Ben waved the nub his arm was meant to connect to while Cam tinkered.

  “Said you’d got ‘im some parts for me,” he said with a resigned smile. “Determined to spend money on me, aren’t you?”

  “What else is it good for?” Warren bent to kiss him, giving his hair an affectionate brush through with his fingers. “This way you don’t have to worry about anyone thinking you’ve got a decent arm, and I don’t have to worry about you not having one.”

  The golem had brass pieces spread all over the desk and was carefully replacing the scuffed and tarnished parts that made up Ben’s current arm. It worked quickly, screwing screws and tightening bolts without a single spark until all of the cover plates were back in their proper place. Warren stepped out of the way to allow Cam access to Ben’s shoulder, and the golem easily reattached the mechanical limb. Ben flexed and twisted his arm and tested the movement of his fingers, and the whirring sound the machine usually made was noticeably quieter.

  “Not bad, Cam,” he chuckled, and he pat the golem on the shoulder as he stood. “Thanks for that. Mind if I come fetch you the next time it gets sticky? It’s a damn nuisance tryin’ to clean it out with me left ‘and.”

  “I am glad to help Ben,” Cam answered with a nod. “If it sticks again, I will look at it.”

  “You’re a good lad,” Ben said, but his mood quickly soured when Warren reminded him that he would be late returning home from the masquerade.

  “May I dress for the masquerade, Warren Hayward?” Cam spoke up behind him, giving both men pause.

  “Dress?” Warren repeated. “What would you want to dress for?”

  “Warren Hayward is dressing for the gala,” the golem said simply.

  “Well, yes, but I’m not—”

  “Oh, let ‘im,” Ben said with a chuckle. “You’re about the same size; must be. Let ‘im wear something of yours. Don’t be a spoilsport.”

  “Thank you, Ben,” Cam said.

  Warren shook his head, smiling faintly. “If you like. I don’t know why a golem would think it needs to wear clothes, but I don’t see why not.”

  “Thank you. May I choose which suit?”

  He chuckled. “Why not? Not the tuxedo—I haven’t a spare. You’ll have to be a bit dressed down.” He watched the golem go out the door and heard him rumbling around in the closet, and he looked up to Ben with a small shrug.

  “It’ll make ‘im happy. Now when are the criminals showing up?” Ben asked with a resigned sigh.

  He was as receptive as expected when the Travers arrived at the house that evening dressed for a gala. He made no attempt to disguise his malice as the twins stood in the parlor to wait for Warren to finish dressing, watching them with his arms crossed and drumming the fingers of his brass hand on his bicep.

  The Travers seemed slightly wary, placing themselves across the room from the off-duty constable, but the silence in the room was deafening.

  “So, Constable,” Owen began, “you’re mates with ‘Ayward, are ye?”

  “Shut it,” Ben snapped, and he moved toward them with a scowl. He stood scant inches from their faces, though they were slightly taller than him, and he spoke in a low voice. “I don’t know what your game is, but you’d best take me serious. If I ‘ear about you steppin’ one toe out of line—if a single hair on your master’s ‘ead comes home out of place—I’ll ‘ave you sent to Australia to live out your days in the mines, you ‘ear me?”

  “We hear you, Constable,” Simon said before Owen could open his mouth again. “He won’t come to harm with us.”

  “I’ve got both eyes on you, maleficum,” Ben sneered, and Simon raised an eyebrow at him. “At’s right. You aren’t foolin’ me. I know those eyes. The minute I’ve got proof, you will find yourself at the bottom of the river just dreamin’ you was in the colonies.” He raised a brass finger at Owen when he began to object and clicked his tongue at him in a warning, preemptively silencing him.

  “If I were a maleficum, you would probably find that more difficult than you think,” Simon said coolly, adding with a small nod, “Constable.”

  Ben let out a low, empty chuckle, and he stood up straighter to look Simon in the face. “You threatenin’ me, my son? That don’t seem much wise, does it?”

  “We’re employed, Constable,” Owen piped in, drawing Ben’s gaze to him. “Keepin’ us off the streets and honest ‘Ayward is, isn’t he?”

  Ben narrowed his eyes at the smirk on the Irishman’s face. “‘At’s a strange thing,” he said quietly, “as it was my understanding that you boys were in a bit of a scuffle in Mayfair not so long ago.”

  “Can’t blame a man fer gettin’ a bit a piss an’ vinegar in ‘im of a drinkin’ evenin’, can ye Constable?”

  “I can, actually,” Ben growled, and he looked between both brothers. “Now you twits understand that I’m not askin’ you to stay in line, I’m tellin’ you. Either one of you shows your arse and you may consider my patience well and truly worn, am I clear?”

  “You don’t have to worry, Constable,” Simon said, and Owen grunted out an agreement.

  “We’ll see,” Ben murmured, staring the Irishman in the eyes, and he turned his back on them when he heard Warren enter the room behind him.

  “All ready, gentlemen?” Warren said with a smile, his mask dangling from his wrist by its strap. Cam stood behind him in a dark grey suit and blue waistcoat, holding his lapels lightly in mimicry of a gentleman and looking quite pleased with himself. It was an odd sight—the brass head with a crooked jaw sticking out of the expensive suit of clothes—and it almost made Ben break out of his intimidating mood.

  “A minute, Warren,” Ben said, and he stepped out of the room with a quick gesture for his lover to join him. Behind the shut door of the bedroom, he said softly, “You be careful with that lot, you understand? I don’t give a tinker’s damn ‘ow you say they’ve been to you; they’re rotten to the core, the both of ‘em. I really can’t warn you enough.”

  “You can, Ben, and I assure you that you have,” Warren said, a small smirk pulling at his lips as he placed a gloved hand on the taller man’s chest. “Stop worrying. I can look after myself.”

  “If you could, you wouldn’t need bodyguards.”

  “You know what I mean. Everything will be fine.” He leaned up to press a light kiss to the corner of Ben’s mouth and felt the cold grip of a brass hand on his wrist.

  “You phone me straight away if anything ‘appens, you ‘ear?” Ben sighed and reluctantly released him.

  “I will. I promise. I’ll be back later, Ben. Try not to sit up and worry like an old woman, will you?”

  Warren opened the bedroom door to leave, and Ben called out loud enough for the twins to hear, “And you mind that thick blighter’s ‘ands; he’ll pocket anything within reach if you let ‘im.”

  “On me best behavior, me ‘and to God, Constable,” Owen said in return, and Ben scowled down the hallway at him as the three men went out the front door to the autocar.

  In the back of the carriage, Warren leaned back in his seat and peered across the way at the twins. Be
n had every right not to trust them, of course. No doubt they had a history that Warren would never know. On the other hand, underneath all of the criminality, Warren thought they might be almost friendly. Owen, at least—Simon occasionally caught him off guard with the way he stared. There was no reason it shouldn’t be possible to be the kind of rough men that Ben thought they were and still have loyalties.

  “You both stay at The Green Man, don’t you?” he asked while they rode along in the golem-driven autocar. “I have a proposition for you.”

  “What, another one?” Owen chuckled. “You’re a merry basket of opportunity, Hayward.”

  “Well, I would say this is rather more serious than our dealings thus far, but I suppose it doesn’t get much more serious than what you’ve been doing for me. I’m asking about a change of location.”

  “Going somewhere?” Simon asked, turning his attention from the passing shops to look across at Warren.

  “The house I’m in now is my old master’s,” he explained. “I’ve a number of bad memories there, honestly, and I’m not satisfied with the level of security since I was broken into. I’ve talked to a solicitor about some available properties in the city, and I’ve decided to buy. I’d like you both to take up residence with me as permanent employees. Aside from the security factor, it will be infinitely less suspicious to have you coming and going from your own home.”

  The twins exchanged a glance.

  “For free?” Owen asked, peering back at Warren with his good eye. “We’ll stay for free, ye mean.”

  “What? Of course. I’ll still pay you for your work.”

  “Keep doin’ as we are, except we get to live in a posh house in the West End instead of walkin’ on The Green Man’s sticky floors?” Owen glanced at his brother with a laugh. “No down side eh?”

  “It’s hard to see one,” Simon agreed. “I think you have a deal, Hayward.”

  “Excellent,” Warren said, sighing softly with relief. Despite Ben’s warnings, he would feel infinitely safer with the Travers always within arm’s reach. “As for this party, please just keep your eyes and ears open. I’ve no guarantee that the man who organized the break-in is who I think it is, so any hint would help.”

  “You’re the boss,” Owen said, slouching in his seat and rumpling his tuxedo jacket.

  Chapter Twelve

  The effect of two twins both a head taller than they really had any right to be, with hard faces and cold stares, dressed in black tuxedos so expensive one might think to accuse them of stealing, was exactly what Warren hoped it would be. People stared at them as they exited the autocar at the edge of the airdock, and space was made for them as they passed through the crowd with Warren leading the way and Cam and the brothers just behind. It was difficult to tell if more eyes were on the graceful automaton or the twin brutes, but Warren graciously smiled at those who caught his gaze on their way.

  The airship dock was outside of the crowded city, of course, and was built over nigh endless rolling hills that could scarcely be seen in the evening light. Bright spotlights lined the causeway that led to the dock, the beams dissipating as they hit the low-rolling smoke from the city. The Princess Alice floated at the far end of a long boardwalk, illuminated by more carefully placed spotlights. The polished wooden exterior and gleaming brass brackets gave no hint of the thumping machinery inside, giving only an impression of quiet ease as it floated at the end of the dock. The four shining propellers extended high above the upper deck and into the clouds, twisting them into dark whirlpools.

  The figurehead was a woman in a flowing blue gown, dark tendrils of hair floating back in an imaginary breeze. She held a lantern aloft in one extended arm, the other gripping the side of the ship with a delicately carved hand. Along the hull behind her were carefully formed vines, leaves, and flowers of solid gold, easily visible even from this distance. They extended as far back as the first tall windows, almost a quarter of the length of the ship.

  At the bow, just at the bottom of the wooden gown, an enormous half-sphere of glass projected from the wood and brass, covering a great portion of the front of the ship. It was a marvel of engineering, Warren was told, and the most expensive airship built to date. It was certainly impressive, but Warren was slightly more concerned with the possibility of running into the employer of his attempted thief.

  At the end of the boardwalk, a man in uniform checked Mr. Warren Hayward’s name on the guest list. Without hesitation, he allowed Warren and his entourage onto the hydraulic glass elevator that rose to the enclosed gangplank fifty meters above the ground. The interior of the airship was just as impressive as the exterior. Tall, open corridors let in natural light from the numerous windows, and intricately carved wood lined the crown and baseboards, continuing the ivy motif of the outside.

  Near the entryway, a tall brass automaton in the shape of a woman stood on a small pedestal, staring blankly ahead. Cam approached it immediately and attempted to speak with it, but it turned its head toward Warren instead, its shuttered eyes opening and looking down at him with soft green lights.

  “Good evening—Warren Hayward,” it said in a mechanical but vaguely feminine voice, the awkward pause before his name no doubt coming from a quick scan through some kind of passenger identification database. “May I be of assistance?”

  “Clever,” Warren muttered, glancing sidelong at the enraptured golem. “I don’t think it’s smart enough to make friends with, Cam,” he said. “Likely it just answers pre-programmed questions. It doesn’t look as though it even walks about.”

  “How sad,” the golem said, blinking its aperture eyes.

  “It isn’t alive, Cam. Don’t feel sorry for it.” A slight shift caused Warren to sway as the airship disconnected from the boarding dock, and he could faintly hear the propellers churning harder to pull the weight of the ship away from the ground below.

  “Come along,” Warren urged. “Let’s see if we can’t make our way to the ballroom, shall we?” He attempted to sound cavalier, and he certainly felt more secure with Simon and Owen flanking him, but the most intimidating bodyguards in England wouldn’t keep him safe from gossip and rumour and disgrace. It wouldn’t matter how impressive his automatons were if he was in prison. Most importantly, Ben’s freedom, or at the very least his position at Scotland Yard, would be in jeopardy if the intruder spoke out.

  He kept his eyes open on their way through the luxurious corridors, but everyone they passed seemed either eager to stay out of the twins’ path or too involved in their own conversations to pay them any attention. As they approached the grand staircase just outside the ballroom, Warren pulled his mask from where it hung over his arm and slipped it onto his face, wishing that he’d thought to get one for Cam. The one he’d chosen for himself was a half mask in pale ivory, with black cracks painted on to give it the illusion of shattered pottery. On the cheeks and over the brow were gentle, abstract curves of gold. He didn’t expect that it actually gave him any level of anonymity, since he was likely to be to the only attending guest with both a golem and two large bodyguards in tow, but he liked the mystique of a masquerade all the same.

  Wakefield knew him immediately, of course, and Warren knew him by his exceptionally long tails and the ostentatious green featheryness of his mask, which very few men could expect to pull off.

  “Hayward!” he called out, trotting over with an empty glass of champagne in his hand. “I was wondering when you’d—heavens, you’re big,” he added with a quick glance at the twins, “are they with you? I was wondering when you’d show up. Showing off your little handybot, are you? Evening there, Cam, how’re things? You look right smart, don’t you? Look at you, dressed up like a proper gentleman! Wonderful!”

  “I’m well, Mr. Wakefield, thank you,” Cam answered politely.

  “I need to talk to you,” Warren said under his breath, and Wakefield drew conspiratorially close. “You may hear a rumour about me—”

  “Oh, you know I love a good rumour,” Wakefie
ld chuckled, but he cleared his throat and attempted to look serious in the face of Warren’s furrowed brow. “Right. Sorry. Do carry on.”

  “—that I hope you won’t consider as true,” Warren finished.

  “What sort of rumour? Have you gotten into some dastardly business, dear Hayward?”

  “It has come to my attention,” he said in a low voice, “that some envious men in my line of work might be spreading the idea that I’m...well, that I—that I don’t enjoy the company of women.”

  Wakefield paused, and he leaned down to rest his elbow on Warren’s shoulder in a way that always unpleasantly reminded the smaller man of the difference in their stature. “That does sound like quite a scandal,” he said with a pensive nod.

  “A ruinous one,” Warren agreed, and Wakefield waved a dismissive hand at him.

  “Nonsense. I have an easy solution for you, but my payment is this.” He leaned in so close that Warren could feel the tickle of feathers on his cheek. “You absolutely must tell me if it’s true.”

  “What kind of solution?” Warren asked, attempting to dodge the question.

  “Ah ah ah,” Wakefield scolded. “Answer first. I thought we were friends, Hayward,” he added with a playful frown. “If you can’t trust a man after you’ve passed out on his chaise and woken up entirely un-toyed-with, how can you trust anyone at all?”

  Warren glanced over his shoulder at the twins, who seemed to be more concerned with whispering to each other than with any conversation of his. He didn’t know why he bothered thinking to keep the truth from them. If things went according to plan, they would know soon enough in any case, and besides, how could he trust them to keep a dozen murders secret, but not this?

  “It is true,” he said in a rush, jumping slightly at Wakefield’s boisterous laugh.

  “You know, I suspected,” he said, waving over a man carrying a tray and exchanging his empty glass for a full one. Warren took one for himself and quickly downed half of it. “I didn’t think that any usually-oriented man could look Miss Isabella St Clair in the face and turn her away. She was cross with me over that, as if I had any say in it,” he scoffed. He took a sip of his champagne and seemed to remember himself. “But yes. Your solution, as promised. You must marry,” he said with an air of finality.