Cas opened his mouth.
“Don’t bother,” Max snapped. “I know what you expected would become of you. You would inherit Goldstein Industries and all my wealth along with it, so of course you didn’t need to worry about such trifles as income. Did it ever occur to you to wonder how I felt about that?” He stood up. “I have no wish to see my life’s work fall into idle hands,” he said, staring down at Cas. “What would you do with it? Appoint some individual to run it, perhaps, while you live off the profits? Or perhaps you would even sell it. That is not something I will permit.
“Besides, do you imagine this lifestyle is the best thing for you? You’ve wasted many of your best years, Caspar, and what have you to show for it? What will you do with yourself once your racing career is over? Your life is empty of any purpose besides fulfilling your own whims. You’ve grown into the one thing I most despise: the idle and useless product of inherited wealth.” Max bared his teeth in something that might have been a grin if it hadn’t been so entirely devoid of congeniality. “I had thought that by giving you room to indulge yourself, you would satisfy these inclinations and grow past them. But that has not happened. So, I’ve given you a push.”
Cas found his voice. “A push? That was out-and-out betrayal, the lowest, dirtiest trick you could possibly—”
“Yes. It was.” The grin grew wolfish. “Mind my next words, Caspar. If you’ve any notions of inheriting from me when I’m gone, you’d better prove yourself worthy.”
“By turning into a Goldstein Industries drone, I suppose,” Cas said around the bitter taste in his mouth. “If I can turn myself into a perfect copy of yourself, then I shall be redeemed.”
“If you want to inherit anything from me, yes,” Max said coldly. “At the very least, get yourself a profession. Something respectable. Find out what it’s like to earn your own way. I won’t keep subsidising your household, either. You’ll need to sort yourself out from here.”
Cas realised, with a thrill of horror, that he was being cut off altogether. He knew he ought to show some contrition, maybe plead a little, and Max might relent… but anger was boiling up too thick and fast to leave him room for rational reflection. He jumped to his feet, blind with fury. “Do you know how you’re viewed beyond the walls of your own office?” he spat. “There’s one simple word for it, and that’s controlling. You’ve no room to allow anyone to be themselves, to follow their own dreams. It’s your way or no way at all. Do you know how many of those you’ve ‘helped’ would much prefer to have been left alone? There are those who go to great lengths to avoid catching your eye.” He stopped himself just in time from mentioning Clara and Hildy by name.
Some manner of emotion flickered in his father’s eyes, but it was gone too quickly for Cas to identify it. “That’s always been one of your biggest problems, son,” Max said quietly. “Your cursed temper.” He stalked out of the room without another word, leaving the door hanging open. Cas stood, shaking with anger, shock, and dismay, as his father’s footsteps receded up the stairs.
A few hours later, Cas dragged his two cartons of black mercury out from behind the line of clothes in his wardrobe and set them down. Staring at them didn’t help him to decide what to do with them, but he kept at it anyway for several minutes, hoping for inspiration.
His house wasn’t anywhere near as grand as his father’s but it was undeniably luxurious, with more rooms than he needed, every possible convenience, and a staff of three to take care of cleaning and cooking for him. He had been as comfortable as possible here for the past few years, but if his father’s subsidies were ending then he would have to move.
And he knew Max too well to imagine he’d be given a grace period to make arrangements for himself. He would have to move immediately.
He had vague ideas of selling his purloined supply of black mercury; after all, though the thought gave him pain he had to admit that he wasn’t going to need it anymore. But how to find a buyer for something he wasn’t supposed to have in the first place? He could hardly advertise, and it was far too early yet to expect the emergence of a black market for the stuff. Hildy wouldn’t need it; she would be getting a supply of her own from the government as long as she was working for them.
A half-moon hung high in the sky outside his window and the streets were quiet. He judged it to be around two in the morning, though he couldn’t be bothered to check. He had walked home from his father’s house, taking a long and roundabout route to give himself time to walk off his fury. Arriving home somewhat cooler-headed, he’d given the rest of the night over to deciding what to do.
Unfortunately, the total lack of precedent for his current predicament gave him no resources to draw upon. How did people go about getting jobs, anyway? And what could he be expected to do? All he knew how to do was drive an autocarriage at high speed; he’d never needed anything else.
In the end he had reached only one solid decision. He had nowhere to go that wasn’t owned or paid for by his father, but he did have friends. Hopefully Lukas wouldn’t mind putting him up for a few days while he worked out his next step.
And, cumbersome as it was, the black mercury would be going with him. Selling it—somehow—would give him enough money to manage for a time, and then… and then… something would turn up. Wouldn’t it?
His head had been splitting with pain ever since he’d left his father’s house. Tired of this at last, he found the bottle of pain draught that Clara apparently kept topped up for him and lifted it to his lips.
He was tempted to repeat his mistake of a day or two before and swallow half the bottle. It would quickly knock him out, releasing him from the circuit of rage and dismay and fear he’d been cycling through for the past few hours.
He took one swallow, and a second. The bottle hovered at his lips for a long moment… and then he replaced the lid and put it back. Insensibility might be an appealing prospect, but it wouldn’t help him now.
And besides. That was the cowardly approach to adversity.
Dawn was beginning to lighten the gloom in his rooms when another problem finally penetrated his befuddled mind.
If Cas wasn’t racing anymore, then Clara no longer had a job.
He swore over that at length, reflecting on his father’s casually high-handed attitude. It was like him to decide to teach his son a lesson, with no regard for the impact it had on others. It wouldn’t occur to him that Clara was an entirely innocent party in the matter of Cas’s racing career and didn’t deserve to be punished alongside him.
Then he remembered what Clara herself had said—about Max’s new information regarding her work with Hildy, and the government autogyro project. If Max had thought about her at all, he would imagine her to be well provided for—whether or not she liked the idea herself.
With a groan, he levered himself up from his despairing posture spread-eagled atop his delicious double bed—that bed he would never sleep in again—and reassembled his clothing into a more or less respectable arrangement. Turning off the electric lights in his rooms, he went out into the street.
It didn’t surprise him to find that the autocarriage that was sometimes made available for his use was no longer at the house. When had it been removed, he wondered? Before or after Max had given him the news?
He checked his pocket watch: not yet six. The trains didn’t run so early in this part of town; the wealthier citizens of Eisenstadt liked their sleep too much to permit such an outrage.
No matter. More exercise would do him good—maybe wake him up a bit, too. He turned his face in the direction of Clara’s house and began to walk.
Chapter Eight
Stepping cautiously onto the street at well past three in the morning, Clara wished once again that Hildegard’s hidden workshop might have been located in a nicer part of the city. Few electric lights burned in the darkness, because row upon row of warehouses, offices and factories required little illumination after working hours closed.
That wasn’t to say that the st
reets were empty, however. A little less than twenty-four hours ago she’d almost run into a gang of most unpromising types a mere few minutes from Hildy’s door. So today, though she had refused Til’s offer of an escort home, she had accepted Hildy’s offer of a fully charged coilgun. The weapon lay tucked inside her jacket, within easy reach should she need to defend herself. Its needles were loaded with anaesthetics only, rather than poison; she didn’t want to kill anyone. But with it close to hand, she felt a little safer.
She’d also chosen to return to Lukas’s house tonight instead of her own, it being closer to hand. Min sailed along over her head, acting as lookout—a role which seemed to involve a lot of dramatic swooping and cackling.
“All’s clear, Clarry!’ she yelled from time to time as she dived by Clara’s ear. Clara didn’t bother trying to explain to her that the scout was supposed to be quiet. She was too tired.
Only two full days and a half had passed since she had managed to inspire Hildy with the notion of setting up a secret autogyro manufactory, but Hild was never slow once she got carried away with an idea. Work had started right away, and of course Clara was included as part of Hildy’s team.
And when Cas had turned up with the news that Clara’s job had dissolved, financial necessity had obliged her to accept Max’s offer of work with the Goldstein autogyro manufactory after all. She and Hildy were building gyros day and night, and already she was wondering how long the two of them could keep it up. She’d managed to snatch but three hours of sleep last night, and she had little hope of better to come.
“Avast!” Min suddenly screeched. “Intruders ahead!”
Clara stopped, her dulled mind slow to appreciate the import of Min’s words. She watched as the pigeon flew away down the street at reckless speed, then quietly took shelter in the shadows of a nearby doorway. Her fingers found the handle of her single-coil handgun and she gripped it, ready to draw. Hildy had said she must aim at an exposed area of skin for maximum effect, so that the needles could penetrate unimpeded by clothing. Perhaps the neck, or the face…
She needn’t have bothered. Within moments Min came flying back, accompanied by a flock of twenty or thirty other pigeons. They followed Min down to the pavement in front of Clara and settled, strutting in circles and all talking at once.
“Introductions!” said Min, coming to a rigid stop right at Clara’s feet. “Clarry, this is Chip.” She pointed a wing at a fat pigeon, his grey feathers looking drab beside Min’s exotic gold and green shades. “And this is Sunny, and Scratch, and Beak, Tweed, Morb, Flash, Perks…” Min’s list of names went on and on but Clara tuned them out, her eyes closing as she leaned against the doorframe.
“CLARRY!” yelled Min, breaking through the fog. Clara snapped awake, mumbling something incoherent.
“Get with it!” Min said, bouncing a few times with claws outstretched. “You missed the important bit.”
“Hm? What was that?”
“This is the important bit,” Min cackled, sidling over to a sleek, dark grey pigeon who stood a little to one side of the flock. “This is Top.”
Clara blinked, momentarily confused. But then Min began grooming Top’s feathers with a proprietorial air and it began to make sense.
“Oh…” she said softly. “Min. Are there eggs?”
Min clucked. “Getting a bit ahead of ourselves aren’t we?”
“All in good time,” Top said, then ducked his feathered head in a bird-bow. “So you’re Min’s human. Pleasure and all that.”
Clara pushed herself off the doorframe and stepped back into the street, picking her way carefully through the assembled pigeons. “I’d ask why the lot of you are out clogging up the streets rather than sleeping at this hour, but honestly I don’t care at the moment. I need to get home. And you’re drawing attention to my state as a solitary female.”
Min cackled. “Nobody’s around to care, lovie, but by all means totter home. We’ll watch her back, won’t we, girls?”
A chorus of assent went up from all of the assembled pigeons except for Top. Clara wasn’t surprised; Min thought most male birds were cocky, self-centred and aggressive, which made the matter of Top all the more interesting… not that Clara disagreed, for she often drew similar conclusions about human males, and really, when you thought about it there wasn’t that much difference between male instincts across species…
Realising that her sleep-clouded thoughts had wandered off, Clara reined these reflections in and resumed her journey. All the way to Luk’s house she heard the repeated sweep of birds’ wings and the soft cackle of talking voices accompanying her home.
She opened Luk’s door as quietly as possible, cursing inwardly when her key scraped in the lock. But to her surprise, she was greeted not with a dark and silent house but by the glow of an electric lamp turned down low and Cas’s voice offering a greeting.
Locking the door behind her, Clara stumbled into Lukas’s living room to find Cas ensconced in the fattest armchair, a stack of papers in his lap and a mug of something steaming on a table at his elbow. His tawny hair was madder than usual, as if he’d been tugging at it, and he was clad in pyjamas and a dressing gown. “It is nearly four of the clock, liebling, and this being the case, I hardly dare ask where you’ve been?”
“Cas,” she said stupidly. “What are you doing up?”
“Not to mention the question of why you are infiltrating Lukas’s house at this unseemly hour, when all other young ladies have long since retired to their solitary boudoirs.”
Clara snorted. “You’re only this verbose when you’re very pleased with yourself.”
He grinned. “To answer your question, I’m up because I have much to think about. Courtesy of these.” He waved a handful of the papers at her.
“And they’re what?”
“Fan letters. From the Casparites. The protest proceeds apace, and I’m called to take some direct action against the Autocarriage Association.”
Clara slumped into a chair with a groan. “Cas. You know I love you, but please. Shut up.”
“You do?”
She frowned. “Do what?”
“Never mind.” He peered at her. “Come to think of it, schatzi, you are looking just a little the worse for wear. What have you been doing?”
“Never let anyone tell you that charm isn’t your strong point. Which reminds me…” She tugged a folded piece of newsprint free of a pocket and opened it up.
Cas’s expression instantly turned from mild concern to apprehension. “Oh… but you’re tired, you should go to bed.”
Clara ignored that. “A Goldstein Wedding,” she read. “A report has reached this publication of a wedding due to take place among the Goldstein clan in the near future. Caspar Goldstein of Goldstein Industries—”
“I’m not part of Goldstein Industries,” Cas interrupted, looking outraged.
Clara lifted a brow at him. “I can perfectly understand the sentiment, but there’s more. Want to hear it?”
“Not really,” Cas said weakly.
She snapped the paper back to perfect crispness and read on. “—the well-known autocarriage driver is due to tie the knot.” Here it pauses to show a picture of Mr. Caspar Goldstein’s betrothed. Do you want to know who is in that picture, Cas?”
“Um…” He squirmed in his chair, sending a few of his fan letters fluttering to the floor.
“Yes. Me. That’s who.” She threw the page at him. “Miss Clara Koh, Mr. Goldstein’s long-time assistant and publicity manager!”
Cas sighed, watching dolefully as the article settled on the carpet. “I didn’t give them that story, I swear. I don’t know where they got it, except…”
“Hm? Except what?”
He shuffled the papers remaining in his lap. “Someone started a rumour that I quit the track to get married, and… well, we’ve always been seen together a lot… and you were in the papers recently…” His expression turned pleading. “It isn’t my fault!”
“It would be too
much trouble for you to publically deny it, I suppose?”
Cas looked wounded. “The Casparites are distraught over this report.”
“And?”
“And you, the object of their collective envy, are acting like it’s a terrific hardship. Is the idea so repulsive?”
“Whether it’s repulsive or not is beside the point, Caspar. The important part is that it is untrue.” Clara’s words dissolved into an enormous yawn and she sagged further on the sofa. “Enough. I’m going to bed.”
But when she reached the doorway she found Lukas just coming through it, his normally neat dark hair rumpled from sleep. “Clara?” he said fuzzily. “What are you doing here at this hour?”
“I was hoping to get some sleep.”
“Oh, I almost forgot!” Cas said suddenly. “Tickets!”
Clara turned, frowning. “Tickets to what?”
“My father’s ball.” Cas had fetched his coat and was now rummaging through the pockets. “You know, the one for Hildy?”
“Your father’s organising it? That wasn’t the idea.”
“I know, but he said if we leave any part of it up to the city it’ll take months to arrange, and the moment will have passed.”
Clara looked down at the ticket Cas handed her, struggling to focus her tired eyes on the small print. “Am I reading this wrong or does that say the 10th Mai?”
“Full marks for reading comprehension.” Cas handed a second ticket to Lukas with a flourish, then returned to his chair and fixed his attention on his letters once more.
Black Mercury (The Drifting Isle Chronicles) Page 9
