Black Mercury (The Drifting Isle Chronicles)

by Charlotte E. English

  “The very one. I don’t suppose you’ve seen her?”

  “Oh! She’s your betrothed, isn’t she? That explains it.”

  “Explains what? Er.” He shook his head. “Never mind. We aren’t engaged, unfortunately.”

  “Unfortunately?” She arched that brow at him again.

  He coughed. “Have you seen her?”

  “No. Good luck, though.”

  Cas started to thank her, but she’d turned her back on him already and was moving away. He sighed. He’d been rude, even boorish, which wasn’t like him.

  Worse, he was losing hope of finding Clara in this throng.

  He stood for a moment, undecided on how to proceed. He should probably abandon the search, find someone else to dance with…

  Just as he was resolutely forming this decision, a light touch on his hand startled him. He turned to find a woman standing at his elbow, someone he was fairly certain he’d never met before. She was near his own age, he guessed, with striking looks: ash-blond hair, fair skin, ice-blue eyes and, he couldn’t help noticing, a rather fine figure. Her green gown was expensive without being too luxurious, and she wore only modest jewels.

  She smiled under this scrutiny, and offered her hand. “Mr Caspar Goldstein, correct? I’ve been wanting to meet you.”

  He took her hand, but instead of shaking it he carried it to his lips. He regretted it almost immediately; his boorishness with one woman was making him extravagant with the next. But her smile widened and she appeared charmed.

  “Madam,” he said. “Whom do I have the honour of addressing?”

  “Matilda Bernat. I’m with the university.”

  “A professor, indeed? You’ll allow me to observe that you aren’t precisely the sort of person one pictures in that role.”

  “One pictures advanced age, wild grey hair and unflattering clothes, I suppose? I hope I shan’t be accused of any of those.” She smoothed the silky fabric of her gown, quirking a wry smile at him.

  “I think it unlikely, Miss Bernat. Or is that Mrs?”

  “Your first guess was correct.”

  Cas recognised his cue to say something flattering about surprise, etc, but he did not feel inclined to play that game. Instead he offered his hand. “Would you do me the honour?”

  She took his hand with alacrity, and Cas led her into the dance just in time to see Clara whirl by in the arms of someone he didn’t recognise. Her eyes met his for the briefest instant, and then in a flash of dark red skirts, she was gone.

  Cas tried not to stare after her. Fitting himself and his partner into the whirling, waltzing throng took all of his attention, and Miss Bernat was saying something.

  “I’ve seen you on the track, several times. I’m rather an admirer, I’m afraid, so I couldn’t resist introducing myself when I saw you just now.”

  Cas smiled. “You’re a fan of autocarriage racing, I take it?”

  “Some think it an improper hobby, but I disagree. We all need some excitement in our lives, don’t we?”

  Cas thought of the feverish anticipation he felt when he lined up for a race; the roar of engines, the bursts of steam fogging the air, the starting horn counting down to the start… then the thrilling chaos of the race, the roar of the crowd, the elation of victory… his jaw tightened with anger when he thought of the Eisenstadt Cup, the most exciting race of them all, now denied him.

  “Is it true, then?” Miss Bernat said, watching his face. “About the ban? I hope it is that inspiring such a fierce expression, and not me.”

  It took a moment’s effort to smooth the frown from his face, and then to replace his smile. “I’m afraid it is true. I am barred from further participation in racing events.”

  “It is the Racing Association’s decision, I take it?”

  Cas nodded an affirmative. “Allegations of misconduct, etc.”

  “Hmm.” The dance ended and they were obliged to suspend conversation as the orchestra received its due applause. The musicians struck up another air, and Cas offered his hand.

  “Again, Miss Bernat?”

  She responded with a coy smile and a little shake of her head. “I’m more in need of refreshment, Mr Goldstein. Perhaps you’d accompany me to the punch table.”

  Cas did so willingly enough. Clara had disappeared again, and besides, he was thirsty himself.

  But once he had duly furnished himself and Miss Bernat with beverages, she drew him aside. “I may be able to assist you with your difficulty.”

  He blinked. “My… you mean the ban?”

  “Yes. I am not unconnected in the city.”

  For a moment his heart lifted and began to pound with hope… then sank again. “It’s painful to admit, but my father is against me in this. The Association’s following his directions.”

  “But he is not the only powerful person in Eisenstadt.” The coy smile turned devious.

  “You know someone who could out-manoeuvre my father?”

  She nodded once.

  “Who?”

  “It would be inappropriate to name names. But I assure you I have your interests very much at heart. I would love to see my favourite driver restored to the track.”

  He pondered this for a moment, watching her face for signs of duplicity. But nothing shone at him out of those pale blue eyes save admiration and enthusiasm. “How could it be done?”

  “Ah. Well. As you may imagine, it will not be easy, or cheap. I’m afraid it will cost.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Of course. You want money.”

  He began to turn away, but she caught his arm. “Not me. My friend will be taking a risk, in openly defying your father and others who agree with him. Compensation will be expected.”

  “But I don’t…” Cas stopped. He’d been on the point of admitting that he didn’t have any money, but his pride revolted at the idea. And besides, even if he didn’t have ready money to hand, he did have assets, didn’t he? Two cartons full of them.

  “It may be possible to raise the funds,” he said carefully.

  “We should discuss this further, but this is not the place. See me at the university tomorrow. Noon. Yes?”

  He hesitated, feeling torn. To openly disobey his father’s prohibition would only make matters worse between them, and he disliked the sort of unpleasantness that Max could create when he was thwarted.

  But then again, the Eisenstadt Cup… all he wanted was to compete in this one final race. After that, he could follow Lukas’s example and quit. Perhaps that would be enough to pacify his father.

  “All right,” he said, smiling with the relief of having made a decision. “Noon tomorrow.”

  Miss Bernat gave him a look of frank approval. “It will be a pleasure to get to know you better, Mr. Goldstein. For now, how about that second dance?”

  ***

  It wasn’t like Cas to be late to a social event, nor to arrive looking so… unpolished. Clara was dancing when she first caught sight of him, and between a string of partners and her regular visits to Hildy, it was late in the evening before he caught up with her. She was standing in a relatively quiet corner, catching her breath and quenching the thirst worked up by five or six dances in a row, when she felt a light touch on her elbow and Cas was there.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were avoiding me,” he said lightly.

  “Untrue.” And it was. She might have been tempted to avoid him if it had been necessary, but fortuitously she’d been kept too busy to need such tactics. In light of that absurd newspaper report, she was too conscious of prying eyes to enjoy his company at such a public event. That irritated her. Why should she care what the papers said, or what people thought?

  “That is a mighty pretty dress,” he said next, looking her over with a broad smile.

  Clara smoothed the fabric of her beautiful skirt, smiling herself. Her gown was made in the latest of Eisenstadt fashions, but she had chosen a deep red Shuchuni silk patterned with gold blooms in a traditional style. She adored it:
not only was it stunning, it also reflected her own mixed heritage perfectly.

  “Was Lukas all right when you left?” she said. “I hate to think of him left at home by himself.”

  “He was fine. He had a drink and a book and was quite comfortable.”

  She sighed. “Ridiculous stubbornness.”

  Cas shrugged. “He chose what would make him happiest. Or least miserable, if that’s the same thing.”

  “That’s not an optimistic statement, Cas.” Studying his face didn’t reassure her. He hadn’t been sleeping any more than she had, judging from his drawn look, and there was tension around his eyes and his mouth. “Are you all right?” It was a stupid question; of course he wasn’t all right. His entire life had changed—largely for the worse, or so he felt— barely three days ago, and he was rightly afraid of the consequences. But he looked gratified to be asked.

  “I’ll be just perfect again if you’ll dance the next with me.”

  “Um…” She backed away a little, and used the excuse of setting down her punch glass to avert her face. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “You know why not.”

  She heard him sigh. “I know you’re not used to being in the papers, but believe me, these reports mean nothing. It’s just rumour. Most people will have forgotten about it by next week.”

  “If we don’t do anything to encourage the rumour, they will.” Out of reasons to avoid his gaze, she was obliged to look up and witness that damned puppy-eyed pleading expression he had long since perfected.

  “Please,” he said softly. “Just one dance.”

  “I’d… rather not. Please don’t press me.”

  It would be Cas-like at this point for him to make some flippant remark, flash his ready smile and ask someone else. But once again he was unlike himself. His smile was forced, and she saw real disappointment in his face.

  “It isn’t that I—” she began, but he cut her off.

  “Never mind. Perhaps I’ll see you tomorrow.” He turned and was gone before she could think of anything else to say.

  Clara watched him go, momentarily frozen with surprise. Cas made these casual sallies for her attention—had done so for years—in the most light-hearted manner; what did he mean by now taking offence over it?

  Whatever the reason, that it had bothered him was perfectly obvious, and astonishment soon gave way to remorse. Perhaps the consequences of dancing with him wouldn’t be so very bad; and even if they were, she would bear much rather than inflict any real pain on him. That was Cas all over, she supposed: light-hearted to a fault, utterly harmless until he lost his temper, and completely oblivious to negativity until suddenly, unexpectedly, something penetrated his fog of self-satisfaction. Then he showed himself quite capable of feeling.

  Clara began to push her way through the milling ball guests in the direction Cas had gone. She was rather shorter and lighter than he was, and encumbered besides by the voluminous skirts of her blood-coloured ball gown; it took her some minutes to fight her way through the guests and she reached the door without finding him. Had he gone outside, or had she missed him in the throng?

  Remembering his parting words, she thought they had the air of the farewell about them. Perhaps he had left.

  Someone grabbed her bare arm, and a slightly slurred voice spoke far too close to her ear. “This dance, Miss Koh?”

  She looked up to find the unwelcome features of an earlier dance partner leering down at her. He had been horribly over-familiar, and an awful dancer besides. Having obviously imbibed rather more punch since earlier in the evening had done nothing to improve him.

  “I think not,” she said, coolly stepping away from him. She found herself followed, however, and her arm seized once more in a bruising grip.

  “You’re far too pretty to be so unfriendly,” he said, grinning at her in an intolerably suggestive fashion.

  “Release my arm!” she said in her most freezing voice, and without waiting for him to obey her command she yanked it out of his grip. This hurt, but she refused to show any sign of it and stood glaring at him in a manner she thought must indicate how very unfriendly she was feeling.

  “All right,” he muttered, falling back a couple of paces. “No need to make a scene.” He gifted her with a rude gesture and then stumbled away in search of some other victim. Clara waited, her breath coming a little fast, until he had disappeared entirely into the crowd. Then she ran out of the ballroom.

  The night air was blessedly cool in contrast to the crushing heat within, and she took a few quick, deep breaths. The refreshing scent of damp spring grass and dust filled her nostrils and she felt a little soothed. A glance up and down the wide cobbled street revealed no sign of Cas, however. She waited for more than a minute, but he did not appear.

  Disappointed and annoyed, both with herself and her inopportune petitioner, she turned to go back inside and take her leave of Hildy. But the murmur of male voices reached her ear at that moment and she paused. Was that not Cas she could hear?

  Following the sounds of conversation a few steps down the street, she encountered a narrow passage running down the side of the Assembly building. It did not rank precisely as an alleyway; this part of the city was too clean and well-kept for that; but it was shadowed from the reach of the street lights and her eyes couldn’t make out the identities of the two figures she detected standing a few feet from the turning.

  Her soft-soled ballroom shoes had kept her approach a secret, and she found she could creep a little closer without detection. Mindful of the unwelcome attention she’d received only minutes before, she had no wish for her presence to be known until she could feel sure that it was Cas holding a hushed and apparently clandestine conversation in a side alley in the small hours of the morning.

  “—assure you, there is great cause to be wary,” said a voice she didn’t recognise. “The science of Starcasting is more accurate than some are inclined to believe.”

  “I’m unfamiliar with Starcasting, I admit, but I can’t see how you could possibly know anything about me—let alone my future—by throwing stones around.” This was certainly Cas. He was using his humorous tone, but she recognised a note of tension underneath.

  “You’re a sceptic,” said the first voice. “But others more derisive than you have been proved wrong.” He paused, and Clara saw a shift in the shadows, which she interpreted as hands lifted in a shrugging gesture. “It’s of no great importance to me to preserve you from a mess you’ve got yourself into, but I considered it a duty to warn you. The so-called ‘black mercury’ is valuable—more so than anyone realises, I suspect. There’ll be trouble over it yet, and I see you at the heart of it.”

  “Thank you for the warning,” said Cas, sounding annoyed now, “but I assure you, it is nothing to do with me.”

  Caught up in the peculiarities of this discussion, Clara had briefly forgotten that she was eavesdropping. When that recollection came to her she felt a flush of mortification steal over her cheeks. Unworthy, this hiding in the shadows! Did she think it reasonable to spy on Cas, just because she was worried about him?

  “Cas?” she instantly called, and set about making a noise of approach. “Cas, is that you?”

  A tall, lean figure—recognisably Cas, even in the darkness—stepped forth from the passageway. “Clara? What are you doing out here?”

  “Looking for you.” She stopped in front of him, but even quite close she couldn’t see the expression of his face. “To apologise.” Turning her head to the left, she saw another male figure in the shadows. “Is everything all right?”

  “You should go back inside,” Cas said, but in a gentler tone. He tried to block Clara’s view of the passageway, but whomever he’d been talking to stepped forward and bowed to Clara. The man was tall, though not as tall as Cas, and rather broad across the shoulders. He was perhaps in his mid-forties, Clara guessed, his face unhandsome but kindly, and his eyes sharp.

&
nbsp; “I apologise for detaining Mr. Goldstein,” said the congenial-looking gentleman, “but my intentions were not nefarious. My name is Quintus Mielke, and I am a former employee of the Ministry of Justice.”

  Surprised, Clara was silent for a moment before she remembered to introduce herself. “I’m sure it’s a pleasure, Mr. Mielke, but is Caspar in trouble?”

  “Not at present. I’m sorry if my actions have alarmed you.”

  “It’s the manner of it that alarms,” said Clara frankly. “Secret conversations at two in the morning rarely mean good things are on the horizon.”

  Quintus smiled briefly. “It isn’t my first choice. I was here for the ball, and I had hoped to speak with Mr. Goldstein inside. But that proved impossible.”

  Thinking of the complete lack of privacy afforded by so very crowded an event, Clara couldn’t help but agree. Her curiosity—and concern for Cas—were stronger than ever, but she couldn’t very well demand to be included in whatever he’d told Caspar, and neither gentleman seemed inclined to share. She would have to try to find out from Cas later on. “I hadn’t meant to interrupt,” she said politely, “so I’ll excuse myself.”

  Quintus merely bowed again and uttered a polite farewell. Cas, though, seemed ready to use her departure as an excuse to escape the warning he’d seemed so unwilling to accept, and he followed her.

  “Going home?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she sighed. “I’m exhausted.”

  “By yourself? I’d better escort you.”

  “I can manage,” she protested. “I was going to hail a cab.”

  “Alone? At this time of the morning? And in a ball gown, no less.” He shook his head. “I don’t mean to cast doubt on your admirable independence, Miss Koh, but even you must acknowledge that this is not one of your better ideas.”

  Privately, she did, though she wouldn’t own to it. She settled for holding her tongue as he fell in beside her. Within a very few minutes he had them both settled into a cab—a rather grubby horse-drawn specimen of carriage, true, but at least it was mobile—and she settled into the seat with a grateful sigh. “I’ve left my coat behind.”