Cold Copper aos-3

by Devon Monk

  “And children?” Cedar asked. “Do you suppose the full moon sends children wandering out of town into the cold arms of winter?”

  “I wouldn’t know, Mr. Hunt,” he said with what almost sounded like real concern. “I’ve seen to it that we have patrols of men on the streets every night. Folk have taken to tying their children to the bedpost and locking every door and window. And still there are empty cradles in the morning. I don’t think that’s the moon’s fault. I blame the very creatures we just burned off of the street.”

  “Burned?”

  “Those guns carry boxes packed with hot coals. Once the Strange are sucked in there, they never come back out. Like straw up a chimney flue.”

  “You’ve thought this through,” Cedar noted.

  “You can thank the mayor for that. He knows what’s best for this town, and sets to seeing that it’s done. But now we have roads to cover. Good night to you and yours, Mr. Hunt.”

  He pressed the throttle down, and the carriage rumbled to life, the back stacks puffing a thick cloud of smoke that rolled upward like the edge of an ocean wave, silvered by the moonlight. The other men turned and followed him.

  “Well, he was unpleasant, wasn’t he?” Wil said.

  “He knows something,” Mae said. “Something about the children, I think. But he is right: there is no power the full moon can give to take children away.”

  “What about a spell?” Cedar asked.

  “Witches?” Mae didn’t sound very surprised. Cedar wondered if she’d been thinking that could be a possible cause for the children’s disappearance for some time now. “It’s…I think there are some spells that can send someone wandering. And the full moon brings most magic strength. But magic doesn’t lend to wicked ends. The very practice of magic is peaceful, gentle. Tried and true.”

  “What did you just say?” Cedar asked, as a memory slipped through his mind.

  “Magic is gentle?”

  “The last thing.”

  “Tried and true.”

  He had heard those words before. Heard them from a man. “Is that a saying among witches? That magic is tried and true?”

  Mae nodded. “I suppose it is. When I lived in the coven we said it often enough. The old spells are the best for they are tried and true. Why?”

  “I’ve heard it recently. From a man. But I can’t remember where or who.”

  “Father Kyne?” Wil suggested.

  Cedar shook his head. “I don’t think so. It’s something more. It feels important.”

  “Well, the trail’s gone cold. No more ribbons of light,” Wil said.

  The side of Cedar’s neck stung, and he cupped his palm over it to ease that pain.

  “So how about we follow that trail instead?” Wil pointed to the mouth of an alley, at the figure standing there. Not a man—well, not a man made of flesh and bones. It was a Strange, the Strange Cedar had seen three times now.

  Instead of bits of wood and dirt, it was made of things found in the city. Scraps of cloth, torn newspaper, and wrappers off bottles and crates that formed the arms, legs, and body, along with bits of wire, rusty nails, a broken watch fob, and a sparkle of glass. All those pieces seemed to be constantly moving, as if a small wind tangled them together to make the humanish shape of the creature.

  Even with all those castaway bits of life giving it shape, the eyes were not human. And they were very much not alive.

  They were nothing but the ghostly light of the Strange. It raised one hand. And in that hand was the pink ribbon—Florence’s ribbon.

  Then it opened its mouth and whispered softly, “Help her.”

  20

  Rose’s arm was getting a little tired, raised as it was, holding her gun trained on the opposite door of the railcar.

  “Hink,” she said quietly.

  “Mmm?”

  “It’s been near half an hour. I don’t think anyone’s opening these doors.”

  He shifted behind her, taking a step forward. “I’ll have a look.”

  While he did that, she walked to the stack of crates and stepped over the puppet man lying on his back and staring at the ceiling as if he had a head with which to stare.

  “Dark out. I can’t see anything in particular. Ship fans have gone quiet,” he noted.

  “We should go now, before we’re noticed,” Rose said.

  “Do you still have that torch?”

  “I think so. But do you think we could just go out through the roof instead? Quieter that way.”

  Hink struck flint to steel and Rose winced, expecting another one of the many flares he’d been throwing around lately. But this time it was just a single flicker of light, a wick caught to flame. He held it up, walked to the highest stack of crates, and studied the ceiling.

  He kept the light low, but it was night out and the freight car had the two holes Rose had burned into the doors. Also, the walls themselves weren’t exactly air tight. If there was someone watching out in that dark, they’d see slants of light slipping out of the freight car, and that would surely send them searching.

  “You up to climbing?” Hink asked.

  “If it means getting out of this box, I am.” Rose plucked a signal light off the wall and held up the glass chimney while he lit it.

  The lantern light seemed like a whole sun compared with the little flame he’d been using. It was easy enough to find a rope, and Hink was a dead aim throwing it out the hatch in the roof they’d come down through.

  “I’ll go up first,” he said. “If it takes my weight, it will take yours. Once I’ve reached the top, tie this end of the rope around your ribs, and I’ll help pull you up.”

  “I know how to climb,” Rose said.

  He nodded. “Good. But tie it anyway. I don’t know how much time we’ll have once I top that roof.”

  He tugged on the rope one more time, then held on to it while he climbed the height of the boxes stacked along the wall. He hoisted himself up the rope, hand over hand, with impressive speed. Rose was once again reminded that Hink was an airship captain, and likely spent more than half his time crawling over ropes and riggings. Of course he was quick at the climb.

  His boots disappeared over the top. After a pause, he leaned over the hatch. “Come on up. Quick now.”

  Rose blew out the lantern, set it at her feet, and tied the rope in a loop under her arms. She made sure her skirts were tied up and out of the way and thought, not for the first time, that Molly Gregor, Hink’s recently departed boilerman, had it right by wearing men’s trousers. As soon as Rose had a chance to do so, she was changing back into her practical overalls. The modern adventurer didn’t need fluff and ruffles. She needed good boots, a reliable pair of suspenders, and a level head on her shoulders.

  Rose was good to her word and climbed the rope while Hink hauled back on it, bringing her over the top of the train car with more speed than she’d expected.

  She sat and Hink let go of the rope and crouched down next to her. “Are you okay?”

  “Good as glim,” she whispered back. Rose worked the knot on the rope. “Any idea where we are?”

  “Too dark to see much, but I heard the airship fans fade off east of us, and that”—he pointed—“looks to be a work shed or factory of some sort.”

  “So people might be that way,” Rose said, pulling the rope off and tossing it back down into the freight car. Hink did one better and tugged the other end of the rope free and kicked it down the hatch.

  “I reckon,” Hink agreed. “Town should be that way. My guess is Des Moines.”

  “So we go to town?”

  “We find a telegraph office.”

  “Why?”

  Hink stood and offered her his hand, which she took. They crossed to the side of the freight car, to the rungs set down the side, which they could use as a ladder.

  “I have information that needs passing along. That thing in there? It’s something my superiors want to know about. Telegraph will be quickest.” Hink lowered himself down t
he side, feet sure on the rungs. He was on the ground in an instant.

  Rose followed, cussing a bit under her breath as her boots got tangled in her skirts.

  “Problem?” he asked when she reached the ground.

  “I’m just thinking Molly Gregor was smart to wear men’s trousers, with all the climbing and cavorting that goes into this sort of life.”

  Hink tightened just a bit. The death of his crew member still hurt, even though it had been months ago, and not his fault.

  “She was one of a kind,” Hink said kindly. “And smart.”

  “Yes,” Rose said, “she was. I might even buy myself some tailored trousers that I could wear about town. Something more sleek and fitted than all this fluff.”

  Hink had taken a step and stopped. He looked back over his shoulder with a grin. “Woman, why did you go and have to put that vision in my head?” He started off again. “I do not have time for such distractions.”

  Rose smiled and followed on his heels. The freight car had been placed surprisingly accurately on a rail spur, which connected to a line that ran parallel to the warehouse they had seen from the top of the car. At this late hour, no trains appeared to be coming or going, and the airship that had transported the car here was not visible in the sky.

  Hink moved from shadow to shadow with clear purpose. He wasn’t going toward town. He was headed straight to the warehouse.

  “Wait,” Rose whispered when they paused by an empty wagon. “Why aren’t we following the rail or road into town?”

  He pointed at the telegraph pole standing at one corner of the warehouse. “Telegraph line. Shouldn’t be manned this time of night. I’ll send the message here, then we’ll bolt to town.”

  “Is the homunculus that important?”

  “Yes.”

  Hink strode away from the wagon, straight toward the warehouse. Rose supposed if someone came along to stop him, he’d tell them he was a U.S. Marshal here to inspect the place. Or, just as likely, he’d hit them in the face and consider that explanation enough.

  They rounded the corner of the warehouse. Four doors were spaced up the length of the building, the one at the farthest end looking the most likely to lead to an office.

  That’s where Hink was walking.

  Rose followed. The only windows were up higher than her head, and all of them were dark and still. If this was a working warehouse and not just a place of storage, then it was silent and waiting for dawn to bring its workers back. She had heard of many big businesses in big cities keeping at least one person on the grounds to watch for robbers and other undesirables, but since this building was so far from town, she doubted anyone would leave portable valuables behind.

  And though some factories chugged away through the night, this place was silent.

  Just before they reached the door, a man stepped out of it. He tugged his bowler hat down tight, then looked ahead and behind.

  And saw Hink, who had closed the distance between them.

  “Hey!” the man said, startled.

  Hink grabbed hold of his arm, twisted it behind his back, and shoved him up against the warehouse. “What are you doing out here at this time of night, friend?” he asked.

  “I’m…I’m.” The man paused. Just as Rose recognized his voice.

  “Mr. Wicks?” she said.

  “Ms. Small?” He twisted to try to see her, but Hink pressed a little harder, keeping him in place.

  “It’s Thomas,” Rose said. “Let him go.”

  Hink didn’t seem to be listening. “What are you doing here? I thought you were up in first class sipping tea in your stocking feet.”

  “Well, there was a robbery.…”

  “Yes, I recall,” Hink said. “Shot a man for trying to nick my valuables. What I’m wondering is just how much you are involved in the whole thing. Seeing as how you obviously took a smoother ride to this warehouse than we did.”

  “I’m not—” He grunted as Hink pressed a little harder. “For the love of decency, Mr. Hink. Will you please let go of me so I can explain?”

  From the look on Hink’s face, the answer was no. Rose reached over and placed her hand on Hink’s arm. “We don’t want to draw attention.”

  Hink considered her for a moment, then loosened his grip on the man. “Hope I didn’t wrinkle your accouterments, Mr. Wicks,” he noted conversationally. “You do understand I’ll shoot you if you run.”

  Wicks turned and took a moment to straighten his jacket, cuffs, and collar.

  “Well,” he started. “This is unpleasant. May I inquire as to why you are following me?”

  “We’re not following you,” Rose said before Hink started yelling at him. “We were following the train car being lifted by an airship.”

  “I am extending to you my patience, Mr. Wicks,” Hink said. “But that’s about ran out now. Why are you here? What interest do you have in this enterprise?”

  The two men regarded each other for a moment as if Rose weren’t even standing there. Fine, let them argue. She wanted to know what was in the warehouse.

  She stepped up and opened the door.

  “Rose,” Wicks started, “you shouldn’t.”

  “Oh, I think we all should,” Hink said.

  But Rose ignored them both. The building was very clearly a warehouse. Stacked within it were crates, just like on the train, and just like the freight in the train, these were stamped with the initials VB. She could guess what was in them. Copper-and-glass battery bits and pieces. Maybe even a few parts of those puppet men.

  It was too dark to see much of the warehouse, but the boxes appeared to line the entire place, with at least one or two clear aisles for walking.

  And to her left was a small office space, a rolltop desk, and beside that, a table with a closed ledger book, a lamp, and a telegraph key.

  “What were you doing in here, Wicks?” Hink asked. “Stealing goods?”

  “If you must know, I sent a telegraph. Now, I really do think we should be leaving in all haste. Miss Small?”

  “Who?” Hink asked. “Who did you send a message to? What part in all this are you playing, Wicks?”

  Wicks smiled, and it was a hard, bright slash in the darkness of the room. “I see no need to tell you, Marshal Cage. My business is my own. And yours, which I believe includes pirating glim, smuggling goods, and trading in secrets, strikes me as against my best interests. Perhaps even against the best interests of this United States. I’ve been sent to look in on you.”

  “You’re a spy?” Rose asked startled. “For who?”

  “I never said I was a spy, though I do operate under the direction of those few people in higher places than I.”

  “So what I’m hearing,” Hink said, “is I should just shoot you now, since you’re just going to talk riddles all night.”

  “What you’re hearing, Marshal Cage, is I am your boss.”

  Hink opened his mouth, but no sound came out of it. He shut it, scowled, and tried again. “Unless you are the president of this here States United, like hell you’re my boss.”

  “Chief Territorial Director of the United States Marshals, Thomas Wicks.” He nodded once. “Recently appointed to oversee all lawmen on the ground and in the air.”

  “Horse crap.”

  “Appointed by the president himself, as a matter of fact, and sent out to investigate the…goings on out west. I assure you I am your superior.” His smile seemed to add: “in every way.”

  “And I’m just supposed to take your word for that? Do you think I fell out the hatch last week?”

  “You tell me. Have the doves mentioned a change in the overview of lawmen?”

  “Information is cheap,” Hink said. “And can be planted with a penny and a pretty word.”

  “So you’re telling me you don’t trust your own spy network?”

  “I’m telling you that, as of now, you haven’t done a lick to convince me that I’d be wasting a bullet just to shut you up.”

  “Interesting.�
� And that appeared to be all Mr. Wicks was going to say, for he just stood there, waiting.

  “I don’t want to interrupt this, um…discussion, but about these crates?” Rose asked. “Do you know what those devices are being used for, Thomas?”

  His eyes shifted to Rose. “Why in the world would you want to know? I find it odd that a woman who claims to have only stayed with the coven in Kansas out of convenience is suddenly mixed up with this glim pirate, stowing away on freight trains and meddling with contents that may be used to destroy this country.”

  “Pirate?” Hink asked with a dangerous grin.

  “Meddling?” Rose said. “You were the one who broke the lid off the crate. You can’t really think I’m part of some kind of plot?” It both frustrated and saddened her. She had been honest with him when they’d been together. But it appeared Mr. Wicks had been lying about who he was, and what he was made of.

  “I really can’t rule it out, can I?” he asked. “You are traveling with this man.”

  “Aw, don’t be tender on me, Wicks.” Hink’s voice held a casual sort of threat. “Tell me just what it is you think I am.”

  Rose let out a hard sigh. This wasn’t getting them any closer to figuring what the copper batteries and puppets were used for. “Excuse me,” she said, a little louder than necessary. “I am tired of being defined by the men I travel with. I make my own choices. I’m here for my own reasons. And one of those reasons is to find out what those devices in the crates are used for. And guns”—here she gave Hink a hard look—“aren’t going to help with that none. Neither is standing around pissing on each other’s boots.”

  Both men looked a little shocked at her language, but Hink smiled.

  “Mr. Wicks,” she continued, “I am not involved in any plot. What I am is tired, cold, and in need of a good hot meal. Gentlemen, I’ll leave you to your threats and wrasslin’. I’m going to find a way into town and, if I’m lucky, a warm hotel and steam bath.”

  “Don’t go far,” Hink said. “Steam bath sounds nice, and it won’t take me long to send a wire.”

  Rose walked out of the warehouse, angrier than she’d expected. She had liked Wicks. But he was yet another man dealing in secrets, like Hink.