Black Mercury (The Drifting Isle Chronicles)

by Charlotte E. English

  “Officially.”

  Hildy beamed. “I’ve enough left to fill up the tanks on at least eight new machines, I’d guess. I could offer them with one full tank, further fuel being the problem of the new owner.”

  Clara nodded. “This is risky, though,” she said, her responsible side beginning to take over. “Maybe you should just wait until after the government expedition is over. They’ll release the prohibitions on flights and allow open distribution of the gyros again, and you can make a go of it then.”

  Hildy smiled knowingly at Clara. “That sounds more like my Clarry. You can see the clever way, but you’d prefer to take the safe way. Not this time, my girl. What do you imagine they’ll find up on Inselmond? Could be anything. What if they don’t lift the prohibition? What if they continue to control all supplies of black mercury and restrict the sale of autogyros? They could. Our government isn’t bad as governments go, but that isn’t necessarily saying much. I won’t risk a delay on this; I may find I lose my chance altogether.”

  Clara could only curse her own cleverness. Her idea still presented a lot of problems. How would Hildy keep her projects a secret once she started selling gyros? She could ship them out of Eisenstadt, and try to make sure her customers understood the necessity for short-term concealment. And she only needed to sell those eight to achieve her goal: given the current fever of excitement over prolonged flight, Clara had no difficulty believing that Hild could charge extremely high prices for them.

  It could work, at least for a while. But it would remain a risk.

  “Just, please be careful,” she said.

  “You worry too much,” Min scolded, jumping up and strutting over to Clara. “Shut it, okay?”

  Clara glared at the bird.

  “Anyway, the Big Man there will keep an eye on her.” Min cocked her feathered head at Til, who smiled.

  “I will at that,” he said. He picked up Hildy’s hand and squeezed it briefly. “If there’s one thing the Goldsteins all know, it’s that you have to take risks to get ahead.”

  When Clara finally left Hildy’s workshop, she went straight to Caspar’s house. Failing to find him either there or at Lukas’s, she proceeded to the track.

  It didn’t take her long to locate him. He was standing not far from the track’s main entrance, the one through which all spectators entered. He had gathered a crowd around himself, mostly composed of females of her own age or younger. He was wearing his signature maroon-coloured coat—the same shade as his autocarriage—and he appeared to be signing things. A few newspaper reporters were in the crowd, taking pictures; despite his preoccupation, Cas kept pace with the photographers, adopting a confident smile each time the cameras flashed. It had been a warm day and the sun was still strong, but he showed no sign of discomfort in his heavy coat.

  Watching him, Clara couldn’t help feeling a little bit impressed. He was very, very good at fielding publicity. It was just a shame he had never turned that ability to any useful purpose.

  He was so focused that her chances of catching his attention were small. Besides, with so many reporters around she didn’t want to draw attention to herself, either. So she waited behind the crowd, listening. She couldn’t hear much over the noise of the chattering spectators and the distant autocarriages, but a few words repeatedly caught her ear: words like “disqualification” and “banned”. Feelings of foreboding grew as she inched her way forward.

  When at last she was close enough for speech, Cas spotted her immediately.

  “Why, hello, leibling,” he said, smiling down at her. “I didn’t know you were a fan.”

  Clara rolled her eyes. “I need to speak to you.”

  “You know I am yours to command, schatzi, but as you can see, I’m a little busy.” He waved a hand at the crowd around him.

  “No, you’re not. You’ve finished. Come on.” She grabbed a fistful of his coat and dragged him after her as she shoved her way through the crowd, taking care to keep her face averted from the reporters and their cameras. After a moment, Cas appeared to decide that it would look better for him to go willingly rather than be dragged off, and she was able to loosen her grip on his coat.

  The last race of the day had ended while Clara had been waiting, and the public areas of the track grew busy as spectators poured towards the exits. People jostled Clara on both sides, and twice she tripped and almost fell on the overlong skirts of some heedless, overdressed female. After the second time, Cas took charge: he slipped an arm around her shoulders, and instead of leading him she found herself being led. He made much better progress than she had, managing a quick and unhindered pace even though he led her directly against the flow of people. Was it just because he was so tall, or did it have something to do with his manner? Either way she was grateful to be spared the threat of injury-by-finery.

  He took her to a lounge that was set aside for the use of the drivers. Few lingered at this hour, and most of those few were leaving as she and Cas entered.

  “What was all that about?” she asked without preamble, waiting only until Cas had finished being civilised with the other drivers.

  He sat down by her with a sigh, stretching his long legs all the way out and resting his head on the plush upholstered seat back. A grimace crossed his tanned face briefly and his hand travelled instinctively to his neck. “Ow. Here, just read this.” He fished a piece of paper out of his coat pocket and handed it to her.

  It was a letter from the Eisenstadt Autocarriage Racing Association. It was brief; barely even polite. In few words it informed Mr. Caspar Goldstein that, due to ungentlemanly behaviour, his membership had been revoked, effective immediately. He was also banned from participating in any further racing events until further notice.

  Clara handed the letter back with a sigh. “Unsurprising, but I am sorry.”

  Caspar stuffed it negligently back into a pocket and slumped a little more in his chair. Clara expected to see some signs of dismay at this ruling, but on the contrary, Cas appeared to be in fine spirits.

  “You don’t seem upset,” she ventured.

  He shrugged. “It’s only temporary, and in the meantime the Casparites love it.”

  “The… Casparites?”

  “That’s what they’ve called themselves. They were just telling me about it. They’ve formed a protest against the Association’s ruling.”

  Clara wondered what manner of protest the girls she’d seen might conceivably launch against the Eisenstadt Racing Association, but she thought it safest not to ask. “Temporary?” she said instead. “That looks pretty final to me.”

  “I’ll talk to my father. Everyone knows I was in the right. They’re just being difficult.”

  “I don’t know that.”

  He blinked at her. “What?”

  “I don’t think you were in the right. Neither does Lukas, on whose behalf you vandalised other people’s property and put yourself and other drivers at risk.”

  Cas stared at her in dismay. “But you’ve always supported me before.”

  “You’ve never done anything this crazy before. There has to be a limit somewhere.”

  Cas looked away, running a distracted hand through his tawny hair. “What was it you wanted to talk to me about?” he said finally.

  “Oh—yes. It’s about Hildy. I need you to help me with something.”

  That earned her a sharp look. “Speaking of. You’ve been keeping secrets.”

  She shrugged. “My contract does not oblige me to share every detail of my personal life with you or anyone else, Cas.”

  He smiled. “So it doesn’t, but we’re friends as well. Aren’t we?”

  “We can talk about all that later,” she said. “Have you heard about your father’s new deal with the government? For the autogyro?”

  He hadn’t, so she filled him in. Before he had chance to comment, she rushed on. “Hildy deserves more than a day or two in the papers. She’s done something wonderful with the gyro and it should be celebrated. I want
to see a grand ball held, with your aunt as the guest of honour. To mark the occasion, celebrate the prospect of exploration on Inselmond, that kind of thing.”

  Cas raised his brows. “A splendid idea, but I’ve no idea what you think I can do about it.”

  At some point Cas had leaned far enough for his shoulder to meet hers. He was warm and solid and she was tired, so she didn’t object to the closeness. “It will have to be a government event to have the proper impact. I want you to talk to Max and get him to pitch the idea.”

  Cas didn’t waste time asking questions; he was well aware of the extent of his father’s connections in the government of Eisenstadt. “I’ve got to talk to him anyway. I’m seeing him this evening.”

  “Thank you, Cas,” she said with a real smile. “You’re an obliging sort—when you aren’t actively trying to be difficult.”

  He chuckled. “Which is often, I know. So, are you going to tell me what you were doing in Aunt Hild’s autogyro the other day?”

  Clara thought that over for a moment. It wasn’t a secret anymore; Max already knew. “I’ll tell you everything if you like, but please don’t remind your father about it. I’m hoping he’ll forget.”

  “Small chance of that; I doubt he’s forgotten a single detail in his life. But I’ll avoid the topic.”

  So Clara told him about her years as an apprentice with Hildy, and her recent months as a member of her team (albeit unofficial). Cas listened without interrupting, for once, and when she had finished he was grinning.

  “You’re a dark horse, Miss Clara Koh. Any other secrets you want to share? While we’re talking.”

  “Nope. You? I think you owe me a detail or two.”

  He cast her a sideways look out of the corner of his eye. “I don’t have any secrets.”

  Cas was so transparent that she could actually believe that of him. “When you develop one, I’m first in line for the grand revelation.”

  “I’ll put your name at the top of the list.” He moved away from her, taking his warmth with him, and she shivered. “I have to go. I’m supposed to have dinner with my father before I begin with the petitions. Can I take you home first?”

  “Actually,” she said, extending a hand, “Today, I wouldn’t mind the company.”

  He helped her out of her seat and swept her a moderately graceful bow. “Very well then, Miss Koh. Let’s be off.”

  Chapter Seven

  Mr. Maximilian Goldstein lived in a large city mansion on the south shore of Lake Sherrat. It was a monstrously sized building made from honey-coloured limestone, its front peppered with enormous windows and richly decorated with slender pilasters, statues, and other absurdities. Inside it contained in the environs of fifty rooms and required a staff of twelve to keep its domestic affairs running smoothly.

  All of which was ridiculous, Cas reflected, given that his father had been living there alone for the past fifteen years.

  He stood in the gathering dusk after he’d rung the doorbell, trying not to feel nervous. The house’s impressive frontage was illuminated by bright, clear electric lights, and he felt thoroughly insignificant as he stood there, dwarfed beneath the mansion’s imposing four-storey bulk. It loomed over him, its upper storeys lost in shadow.

  It set the tone for the rest of the evening perfectly.

  The door was opened by his father’s butler, who showed Cas into the drawing room with repressive formality. Cas was left to wait there alone for nearly twenty minutes before the butler returned to announce dinner.

  “Thanks, Gruber,” he said, stifling a sigh as he rose to his feet.

  Dinner was brief, and the conversation was stilted and devoid of any particularly useful content. Cas was unsurprised by this. Max had never really grasped the concept of eating and socialising at the same time; he expected Cas to present himself at his table once in a while, but only for the look of the thing. No useful topic could be broached until after dinner.

  Cas did his best to hide his boredom throughout the meal, though he needn’t have bothered. Max sat with his head bowed over his plate, his thoughts clearly elsewhere, and Cas made no effort to interrupt him.

  In due course his father wandered off to his study, and Cas followed. He breathed an inner sigh of relief as Max handed him a glass of something appealingly strong. He had to remind himself not to gulp it.

  “So, let’s get it over with,” Max said, waving Cas to the expensive but uncomfortable leather armchair that stood opposite his own. “What is it that you want?”

  “Nothing in particular,” Cas smiled. “I—”

  “Just get on with it,” Max said. He sat back in his chair, his blue eyes coldly amused in a face pale from too many hours spent cooped up in his office. He might be midway through his fifties, but he seemed largely unaffected by the years, his steel-grey hair still thick and shining with health. As usual, his hair, clothes, and jewellery were immaculate.

  Cas felt the old irritation rising under that cool stare. This was the trouble: any attempt to intimidate him always made him feel combative, and Max didn’t seem to know any other way to approach his only son. His manner was cool at best, and at worst outright forbidding.

  Swallowing his annoyance, Cas tried a smile. He’d begin with Clara’s request; get that out of the way first. “I heard about the autogyro deal,” he said. “Congratulations.”

  Max merely nodded.

  “I had a thought,” he continued, remembering at the last minute not to mention Clara. “The flight’s very much the topic of conversation lately and the papers love it. It would be great to see some kind of event to mark the occasion—perhaps a ball?”

  “Here?” Max looked horrified at the idea.

  “Such an event ought to include all of Eisenstadt’s great-and-good,” Cas said quickly, before his father could say anything more. “An event of suitable weight ought rightly to be government backed. It’s as much as Hildy deserves.”

  Max stared at him.

  “And think of all the disappointed wealth, deprived of their chance to go haring off to Inselmond right away. A city ball would pacify them for a while, if it had suitable pomp.”

  “I never knew you to be so fond of your aunt,” Max said.

  “I think Hildy’s far more brilliant than she’s often given credit for,” Cas replied. “Her contribution to Eisenstadt’s technological progress is immeasurable, and this autogyro machine is her crowning achievement. It ought to be properly recognised.”

  Max nodded. “It would be a suitable honour to the family,” he mused, and Cas winced inwardly. It was no surprise to him that Max focused on the family first and individuals afterward, but had he done enough to convince him to promote Hildy first?

  There was no time to think about it, for Max was already getting out of his seat. “I’ll mention it to one or two people,” he said, and with a nod he headed for the door.

  “There’s one other thing,” Cas blurted.

  Max turned to level a frown at him, then returned to his seat. “Do make it quick,” he said. “Not that I’m not delighted to see you, but… you understand.”

  Delighted? Ha. Cas doubted that. “It’s about the Autocarriage Racing Association,” he said in a rush, hoping to get the inevitable row over with sooner. Max had long objected to the intensity of his son’s focus on autocarriage racing, but he’d continued to pay the bills. This other incidental service wouldn’t require too much extra of him. “They’ve cancelled my membership and—”

  “I know,” his father interrupted.

  Cas blinked. “Oh. Well, it’s a trifle inconvenient, as you may imagine.” He kept his tone jovial, though it cost him some effort to do so. “I don’t suppose you could have the ban lifted?”

  “Considering the difficulty I had in getting the ban imposed, I can’t imagine why I would now seek to see it removed.”

  Max delivered this in such a conversational tone that for a moment Cas didn’t quite understand him. But the glitter in his father’s eyes convinc
ed him that he was serious.

  “You… did what?” he managed.

  “The president of the Racing Association was kind enough to inform me that he had no intention of allowing you to be banned,” Max said clearly. “He viewed it as a potentially unpopular and unwise decision, by which of course he meant that I might be inclined to stop subsidising the organisation—and the track, and the sport—if my son were to be so treated. I wasted no time in informing him that the precise opposite was true, though it took longer than I liked to convince him of my sincerity.’

  Cas swallowed his growing ire. “You mean you threatened to stop subsidising all those things if they didn’t ban me?”

  “Precisely.” Max sipped at his glass of cognac.

  “What in the world made you serve me such an appalling trick?”

  “You are aware of my feelings regarding your choice of… career. Such as it is. You’ve already wasted your youth on autocarriage racing; it’s time you took up a real profession.”

  “Racing is a profession!”

  Max’s eyes flashed with derision. “No, it is not. The definition of a profession, Caspar, is an occupation which requires skill and which furnishes income. Racing requires considerable skill, I allow that much, but it certainly does not generate money for the drivers. On the contrary, it swallows money at an alarming rate. It is a hobby for rich and idle men, and that is all.”

  Cas was too flabbergasted to speak.

  “If you wish to continue this discussion then I urge you to find your tongue,” Max said. “And quickly.”

  Cas’s indignation was so great he felt smothered by it. “Of course I knew that you disapproved of what I was doing, but since you continued to pay for it I thought—”

  “You thought I was merely talking,” Max interrupted. “And that was a mistake on my part. It is a sport I enjoy, as a spectator, and so I have long supported it; therefore it did not seem inappropriate to support you in it, at least at first. And it was what your mother wished.” He paused, his expression turning stony. “But she indulged you to excess, and in following her wishes, so have I. I could see that you wouldn’t be persuaded to quit of your own accord; that you would maintain this absurd ‘profession’ until you were simply too old to continue, and then what would become of you?”