Cas paused to consider. He wasn’t sure if he could get Faulkner out of the gyro, too. The other man was shorter than he, but heavier and undoubtedly strong. And he wouldn’t repeat Matilda’s mistakes.
Cas really wanted to get his aunt’s gyro back if he could, but the mercury was the important part. There it was: a stack of bottles somewhat hastily tied between the two seats.
Shoving his way forward, he sat down in the seat that Matilda had previously occupied and began untying the ropes.
Faulkner swore at him.
“What?” he yelled over the noise of the wind and the engine. “I can’t hear you.” One bottle slipped out of the net and fell away to the ground. A second followed it. He hoped they wouldn’t break, but if they did… at least Faulkner wouldn’t be getting them back.
He then received the clearest sign yet of how deeply Faulkner valued the black mercury. The man flew into a panic and actually jumped out of his seat to catch the third one before it fell. The gyro began to drop, but that didn’t seem to faze Faulkner. He hardly appeared to notice.
Cas noticed. His stomach dropped and his breath stopped. He’d known the two of them were bonkers, but he hadn’t expected the man to abandon the controls for a few bottles of black mercury! He’d undone enough knots; Faulkner was busy clutching at the remaining bottles as they threatened to slip out and down. Cas swung past him and all but fell into the pilot’s seat.
He stared at the controls, momentarily stymied. How did Hildy fly these things? The controls were unfamiliar, but one or two things reminded him of his beloved autocarriage… he tried a few experimental moves, and managed to slow the machine’s descent. But they were still dropping fast.
Panicked, Cas’s hands began to shake and his grip failed. Damn it, Faulkner had flown the thing! Faulkner! The man came from Inselmond. It wasn’t as though he’d had previous training, was it? He’d picked it up—so could Cas. Trying for a moment to ignore the way the ground was rushing up towards him, Cas forced himself to focus on the autogyro.
In fact, it was blessedly simple—not one of Hildy’s most sophisticated machines, not by a long shot. But it had been a prototype, built merely to test an idea; she’d have refined it with subsequent builds. He mastered the trick of it, the sequences; the engine’s power increased once more, the machine began to rise, and he countered the effect the wind was having on its direction, sending it veering away to the west.
They hadn’t had time to fly far, he realised. His fight with Matilda had been brief, a matter of minutes, and he hadn’t grappled long with Faulkner. The police were behind him, at the cemetery. He smoothly turned the gyro around and angled it steadily downwards.
The field of blinking lights appeared below him after a minute or two: police still swarming the cemetery, he supposed, looking for who-knew-what. Nerves fluttered in his belly: he wasn’t sure how to land the gyro, or where. He couldn’t see any obvious clear spots around the graveyard, or within it, and he didn’t want to risk landing on top of somebody. Where could he go? He searched frantically, turning in his chair, struggling to keep control of the machine as he did so.
His dilemma was solved in an unexpected way. The gyro suddenly dipped as Faulkner stood up, his weight destroying the machine’s fragile balance. A single step and Faulkner was on him, grabbing his head, trying to haul him out of his seat and over the side.
Faulkner was offensively strong. He heaved, and Cas actually came out of his seat, at least an inch of clear air appearing between that and his rear. When Faulkner slammed his weight against Cas, shoving him to the left, Cas couldn’t find a way to save himself. He was bested by the same damned trick he’d pulled on Matilda.
The world tipped and air rushed past his ears as he fell into the night.
Shitshitshit, his mind screamed, and he knew how Matilda had felt a few minutes before.
But it seemed that luck was minded to favour him at last, for his panicked flailing paid off: his hands hit the side of the gyro. He was so surprised he almost forgot to grip. He hung there for an instant, dazed, as Faulkner repositioned himself at the controls.
Black Hill Cemetery spun dizzily below his feet. He sensed rather than saw the upturned faces, lights frozen in their haphazard dance as his audience waited to see what would happen.
Clara was down there somewhere.
Cas renewed his grip on the gyro, gathering his resolve. Faulkner had no experience with flight, and he probably didn’t have Cas’s experience with autocarriages to make up for some of that. If Cas, say, swung his full body weight from side to side and bounced up and down and, in short, did everything he could to crash the gyro… he doubted Faulkner would know how to correct for it.
Cas tried it. He tried it with such enthusiasm he almost dislodged his own grip and sent himself plummeting down. Not that he minded that idea much at this point; not while a pulsing rage still pounded through his head. If he fell, fine. He would just make sure he brought the Inselmond bastard down with him when he went.
It all happened rather quickly in the end. The autogyro dipped sideways, then began to tip; Faulkner frantically scrabbled at the controls, accomplishing nothing useful; the gyro took a sudden dive downwards and to the side, throwing Faulkner out of his seat.
After that there was no way to go but down. And down they went, in style. Cas let go of the gyro at the last second, and tried to hurl himself to the side; he was dimly aware of scattering figures below him as the gyro bore down.
Impact. He landed badly, and felt something important give: one of his legs, he thought. He rolled and rolled, his momentum carrying him through several turns until he fetched up against a blessedly solid gravestone.
Behind him he heard the sound of crumpling metal as the gyro hit the ground.
Sorry, Hildy, he thought with a flash of guilt. He should’ve been able to find a way to save the gyro, should’ve handled that better, should’ve…
His thoughts died away as a crowd of people came running up to him, most of them uniformed and unfamiliar. He looked for Clara and soon saw her, pushing her way through to the front. She dropped onto her knees beside him, her face distraught.
“We’ve done this far too often lately,” she snapped. “Can’t you please, for the sake of my sanity, stop crashing your machines!”
He could only laugh at that, hysteria bubbling up at finding himself alive after all. “I can try,” he croaked.
Someone else pushed their way through—or rather, the mill of people parted for him. The newcomer was tall, and Cas had to tilt back his head to see all the way up to the man’s grey-haired head and fierce expression.
Cas stopped laughing. “Hi, Dad,” he coughed.
Max stared at him in silence for a long moment. Then he sighed. “Are you all right?”
“Of course I’m not all right,” Cas said, laughing helplessly again. “I’ve broken my sodding leg, haven’t I?”
Chapter Twenty
Cas’s leg was not broken.
In some ways that was a disappointment. He’d been carried out of Black Hill Cemetery with extreme care, and laid out on a stretcher like an injured hero. He’d looked forward to having his picture taken for the papers, leaning on his crutches like a seasoned soldier just back from some thrilling campaign; he’d adopt a slightly pained but noble expression, his suffering evident but his staunch courage equally so. His crutches and his broken leg would be his badge of honour, evidence of his extraordinary bravery.
In the midst of these pleasant dreams had come the ruling: his right leg was badly sprained in two places and he had more bruises than he could count, but the bones were sound.
Damn.
“You can’t truly wish for a broken leg, Cas,” Clara had said, exasperated. “It’s been driving Luk crazy.”
Cas had merely shrugged, unable to explain. But later that day his father had had a word with someone, and Cas had got his crutches after all.
He wielded them with pride.
Three days later, he
sat in the stands at the Eisenstadt track with Lukas on his left and an empty seat—Clara’s— on his right. Behind him sat his father—and Hildy. His aunt had seemingly forgiven her brother a great deal on account of his appearance at the cemetery. Bringing the police against orders had been risky, but Max’s timing had been impeccable. Hildy seemed inclined to take it as a sign that he wasn’t as heartless as he liked to appear.
Cas wasn’t fully convinced, but he’d said nothing. Hildy and Max reconciled was better for everyone.
The opening race of the Eisenstadt Cup events was about to begin, and the Goldstein party (as they were called) naturally had seats right on the line: they’d see the winning driver come home. Watching the autocarriages line up for the race, Cas tried to squash his feelings of disappointment at not being one of them. Even without the ban, it would’ve been hard for him to drive with his damaged leg, and he couldn’t blame his father for that.
Well—he could find a way, if he wanted. But it was time to stop blaming his father for everything. He’d made his own decision to reinterpret the rules of flight.
The odd thing was, his regrets were relatively minor. This part of his life was over… and maybe that was okay.
Luk shifted in his seat, his elbow bumping Cas. “Sorry,” he muttered.
“What’s up?” Cas asked, surveying his friend. Lukas had only left the hospital that morning. He was still pale and tired, and he had strict orders to rest as soon as the races were over. But that wasn’t what was odd about him. He had been restless all day, and it wasn’t quite the attitude of disappointment or regret that Cas might have expected from him. He, too, was exiled from a race he’d stood a good chance of winning; but though something was obviously bothering him, Cas didn’t think it was that.
Luk smiled wryly, not looking at Cas. “A few things, actually, but it’s no business of yours.”
Cas subsided, feeling rather hurt.
“Sorry,” Luk sighed. “I’ll explain later.” He stopped, staring down the track. Following the line of his gaze, Cas saw some sort of commotion was happening—uniformed figures were moving up on the line of autocarriages. They looked like police…
“Hullo,” said Cas. “What’s this about?”
Luk was grinning. “Comeuppance, that’s what.”
Cas watched, mystified, as the figures moved in on a dark green autocarriage, surrounding it. Someone appeared to be ordering the driver to get out.
“Isn’t that Geiger’s?” Cas whispered.
“Yep,” Luk grinned.
Cas watched in silence as Alfred Geiger got out of his autocarriage and ripped off his helmet. He was in an obvious rage, gesturing and shouting at the police.
The altercation ended with Geiger being led away—in handcuffs.
Cas turned to Lukas and lifted his brows. “Care to explain?”
Lukas leaned in closer. “Geiger was the one who paid off Mik Hass,” he said in a low voice. “I found this out before… well, before all that mess with the mercury. They’ve been investigating him for the past few days.”
Cas whistled. “Got him in the nick of time! What a show.”
“Probably deliberate timing,” Luk said with some cynicism. “Hear that?”
Word of the arrest—and the reason for it—was obviously travelling fast; the stands were erupting with applause. Cas rolled his eyes. “Deliberate how? I can’t imagine the Ministry of Justice deals in showy, public arrests.”
“Deliberate… in that it caused Geiger the utmost in bitter agony,” Lukas said with a malicious smile. “There he was, on the verge of pulling off his great victory—and instead…!”
“I didn’t realise you had such a vindictive streak,” Cas muttered.
Lukas shrugged. “He ruined your chances too.”
“Not quite. I ruined my chances; he merely gave me the opportunity.”
“Very magnanimous. He also trashed your house, and mine; or did you forget?”
“Er… yeah, I was forgetting that.”
Luk fell silent, so Cas went back to looking around for Clara. She had five minutes—possibly less—to reach her seat before the race began.
Hildy caught his eye as he turned in his seat, and leaned down to talk to him. “Looking for who?”
“Clar!”
“She’s not coming, didn’t she tell you?”
Cas blinked. “Oh.”
Hildy’s brows lifted and she looked ready to say something else, but she was drowned out by another wave of cheering: the race was about to start. Cas sighed and faced forward again. Why wouldn’t Clara come? She’d known he would be there, and Luk, and Hildy, and well… everyone.
Well, there wasn’t time to think about it. The starting signal sounded and the autocarriages took off; Cas was soon caught up in the race.
After a long afternoon of cheering, followed by a round of pictures, interviews and talking with the drivers, Cas finally left the track. He’d got separated from Lukas some time ago, and his father and Hildy had long since left. He still hadn’t seen any sign of Clara.
It was past time to find her. He felt vaguely nervous at the prospect, for no reason he could precisely determine. Checking his watch, he found it was past six already; she’d be at home by now.
Ordinarily he’d have to take the train to Clara’s house, but his father had provided an autocarriage for his use—just until his leg was better. He got into it gratefully, pleased to think of the small apartment that awaited him at the end of the day.
There’d been something of a scene with Max, a couple of days ago. His father hadn’t been any more open to the idea of Cas’s defection now than he had in the past; he’d done his best—again—to persuade his son to reconsider.
It had taken about half an hour of heated debate for Cas to realise the truth. Max couldn’t imagine a son of his having neither the taste nor the skill for business. It was simply inconceivable. He could see Cas’s lack of ability clearly enough, but he still thought that all his son required was a year or two of experience and training to bring him up to the mark.
“Dad,” Cas had finally said. “Let’s be honest about this. I’m crap, aren’t I? Complete crap. You can’t turn me into a businessman, no matter what you do.”
Max had stared at him, speechless. A son of his —his only son!—could not be crap at business. It was impermissible. Inconceivable. Outrageous.
Then Max had laughed.
It was more of an incredulous sound than a humorous one, but still, it was a laugh. “You’re right!” he’d said. “Total crap. Complete, utter crap. Your mother always said you would be.”
That had stung. “Right, well, if that’s settled.” Cas had been halfway to the door before Max had called him back.
“You’re going to have to do something, Caspar.”
Cas had shrugged. “I’m sure I’ll figure something out.”
Max’s grin had been fiendish. “There’s one thing in the world at which you excel, I think. Don’t you?”
“Er. Is there?”
“Driving, of course. Driving. And…” Max had paused, eyeing Cas speculatively. “And flying, it would appear.”
“Neither one of any use. Driving is obviously over, and Hildy can fly her own gyros.”
Max’s sigh had been long-suffering. “You know the reason why you’d be useless in my shoes, Cas? You don’t look far enough ahead.” Then he’d smiled, and there had been enough affection in it to take the sting out of those words. “Leave it with me.”
Two days had passed and Cas still wasn’t sure what his father had been talking about. In the meantime, he had temporary accommodation that seemed princely compared with a park bench; his family were getting on peculiarly well with each other instead of being at odds; and… well, he couldn’t think of any other particular blessings just at present, but that was enough to be going on with.
“Thanks,” Cas said as his driver pulled up at Clara’s house and opened the passenger door for him. He hobbled to her front door and
knocked.
No answer.
He knocked and waited some more.
Silence.
He began to feel the faint buzz of growing concern. Why wasn’t she back yet? Where could she be at nearly seven in the evening? Faulkner was in custody and Matilda was dead. But what if it wasn’t over? What if something had happened to Clara?
He sighed wearily, disgusted with himself. One little series of catastrophes and he was clucking and fretting like a hen with one chick…
He got back into the autocarriage. “Eberstark Coachmakers, please,” he instructed his driver, and gave the address.
The woman hesitated. “A coachmakers’, sir—at this time? You’re quite sure?”
“Perfectly.”
Cas devoted himself to trying not to worry as he was slowly driven across the city. Clara would be at Hildy’s workshop. They were probably working on something, that was all, and had forgotten the time—they often did. He fidgeted with his buttons and the cuffs of his jacket, ran his fingers through his hair and shifted about in his seat, trying not to imagine things. But in his mind, he saw Faulkner escaping custody. Faulkner going back to Hild’s workshop and finding Clara there alone. Faulkner kidnapping her and taking her to Black Hill Cemetery…
When the carriage drew up at the coachmakers’ he jumped out immediately without waiting for the driver to open the door. He’d forgotten his bad leg for a moment and he stumbled clumsily, falling back against the autocarriage.
“Idiot,” he muttered. Leaving his crutches in the vehicle—he couldn’t be bothered to go back for them—he hurried inside, as fast as his mangled muscles could take him.
He went straight to the concealed door at the back, but before he could draw aside the covering and knock, it opened and Clara appeared.
“Shh,” she said softly, a finger held to her lips. She beckoned him inside and he followed. Shutting the door behind them, she held out a hand to stop him from going any further. “Don’t disturb them. They need to get this over with.”
Black Mercury (The Drifting Isle Chronicles) Page 26
