Fields of Iron: A steampunk adventure novel

by Adina, Shelley

  “Then … you won’t be needing me, Your Serene Highness?” Joe ventured.

  Behind him, the majordomo went into a coughing fit.

  “I always need good, loyal men,” the Viceroy said, though it sounded a little as though he said it because he was expected to, not because it was what he really thought. His face turned a little pale. “We will go in, out of the sun.”

  Hastily, the grandee escorted his prince across the courtyard, apologizing all the while, and the latter nodded to the ranks of servants and workmen who stood as straight as posts in the warmth of the day, sweat beading on a brow here and soaking through a shirt there. “You may return to your tasks,” he said with what Evan thought was great kindness. “Thank you for your attention.”

  “Are we to go in, too?” Evan whispered to Joe. “We are not guests.”

  But the youngest daughter must have had sharp ears, for she turned and took Evan’s arm. Isabela, that was her name.

  “Senorita,” he addressed her awkwardly, “is this quite proper?”

  “You are a guest in my father’s home.” Her eyes were long-lashed, dark, and sparkling with mischief. “Why should you not come in and take some refreshment?”

  “Because I am a prisoner?” he suggested.

  Her pretty, heart-shaped face clouded. “Do not dwell on such unpleasant things. It is fiesta, and we all have the honor of serving His Serene Highness!”

  “Well, yes, and I am very sensible of that honor, but—” How did one explain one’s circumstances to a pretty, sheltered, unimaginably rich young lady? Perhaps it would be more polite to pretend he was merely here as a tenant or a man of business.

  “Do not imagine me ignorant of your situation,” she said, lowering her voice. “I read Papa’s correspondence. I know all about you.”

  “A girl after my own heart,” Joe said to no one in particular, his hand brushing the petals of the vine as they passed through the front doors. “What is this plant called?”

  “That is bougainvillea,” she said, “and do not change the subject.”

  But now her mother’s sharp eye had counted heads, and dropped to her daughter’s hand nestled so confidingly in the crook of Evan’s elbow. She said something tersely to Isabela, who looked suitably chastened and released him.

  “I must go with my sisters,” she said, and then added rapidly, “but you must promise me a dance each tonight.”

  “Certainly,” Evan replied, but Joe only looked amazed.

  “That one is a trial to her parents, I’ll wager,” he said as they followed the party in to the long dining room, where the carved, heavy tables were spread with every manner of meat and vegetable and fruit and drink.

  Evan’s mouth began to water, and though he could see Isabela chattering with her sisters, he could not focus on her. It was everything he could do to control himself and not dive straight into the middle of a platter of pork slices and figs gleaming with oil and smelling like a gift from heaven.

  Servants attended each guest, helping them to plates of food and delicate glasses of liquor. The grandee served the Viceroy himself, choosing the best and first from each platter, and plying him with drink. But the young man seemed to have an abstemious appetite, eating only a very little roast beef, figs, and an odd vegetable that looked like a massive thistle, whose leaves were dipped in oil and eaten one by one. Evan passed over a pyramid of the strange things—it seemed like far too much work for too little nourishment.

  He and Joe were permitted to serve themselves just ahead of people who must be tenants, dressed in their best and too overcome with the honor of being in the same room as the Viceroy to do much more than stare and murmur among themselves.

  The sun had barely traveled the width of one window, and Evan had only just cleaned his first plate, when the Viceroy stood. Every person in the room leaped to his or her feet in a great scraping of chairs and rustling of silk.

  “Thank you for your hospitality,” he said with a nod to the grandee, “but I will rest now, in preparation for the festivities this evening. No, do not trouble yourselves. Finish your meals.”

  “I would hope so,” Joe murmured as he concluded the translation, starting in on his second plate with gusto.

  “Perhaps one must be given permission,” Evan replied, filling his own with everything within reach. “Though I should hate to think we had to stop when he did. No wonder the poor lad is so thin.”

  “I’d refrain from referring to the absolute monarch as the poor lad,” Joe said. “Might be dangerous, him being General of the Armies of Heaven and all.”

  “Quite right. I shall watch my tongue. When it is not occupied with this excellent wine.” He knocked back the tiny glass of golden liquid with satisfaction.

  “Watch that stuff,” Joe warned him. “It’s got more of a kick than you’d think, and the last thing we need is to draw attention to ourselves.”

  Evan was not the kind of man to disdain good advice, but he did suffer a pang of regret as he set the little glass down and refused another.

  The grandee returned from escorting his royal guest to the wing of the house that was to be for his exclusive use, and with the royal staff gone to attend their master, the room seemed somewhat emptier. Isabela made her way over to them, her skirts frothing in an appealing way about her ankles.

  “Did you enjoy your lunch?” she asked with a smile at their empty plates.

  “That was a lunch?” Evan said. “It seemed like a feast fit for a king.”

  “I hope it was, or Papa will never bear up under the shame,” she said merrily. “Come. If you want nothing more, perhaps we might walk in the gardens. Dessert will be served later, with tea.”

  Joe gazed at her with one brow raised. “Does your mother know you are making shocking advances to the political prisoners?”

  “Pish.” The girl waved a hand as though this hardly bore thinking of. “I am simply playing the role of hostess, and you two are much more interesting than the mayor or the daughters of lesser grandees. But if it will make you feel more comfortable, I will call my duenna to attend us at a suitable distance.”

  “Soldiers would be more appropriate, don’t you think?” Evan couldn’t help but smile. Really, she and Lizzie would get along famously. “We might be tempted to capture you in exchange for our freedom.”

  “If you did, I shouldn’t complain.” She tossed her head. “I can help you steal some horses, if you like.”

  Evan laughed, which netted him a glance from her watchful mama like a spear thrown the length of the room. “I am afraid we are not nearly so dashing as you think. But after long weeks in the gaol at Las Vegas, I should be glad of a walk in the garden, if only to settle what could be my last meal.”

  “I hope it will not be.” Imperiously, she signaled, and a lady of uncertain age rose to join them, her lunch left unfinished. “Come, this way.”

  Evan had a moment to feel sorry for the woman, who was thin enough to indicate that this might happen fairly often, before Isabela took his arm once more and their little party sallied forth into the gardens on the opposite side of the house, now pleasantly shady and cool.

  “Are the gardens your mother’s work?” Evan asked as they paced the gravel walks between knot gardens and arbors covered in climbing roses on the point of blooming.

  “Oh no. Our family has lived here for two hundred years. They are pleasant, but terribly old-fashioned. My great-grandmother was interested in botany, as you see there.” She indicated a long garden full of what Evan instantly recognized as medicinal herbs—lady’s mantle, echinacea, lemon balm—and growing above them, elder trees in early flower like a drift of snow, their sweetness hanging in the air.

  “I should have liked to talk with her,” Evan said. “I am a doctor, you know, and we are sometimes obliged to take our medicines where we can get them. In one of my examinations, we were given a case and instructed to take a day in the countryside, collect the herbs needed for a cure, and compile them.”

&nbs
p; “That seems a waste, if there was only a teacher to give them to,” Joe remarked.

  “Oh, no, the cases were real. We administered our cures to patients at the hospital. It was one of my more anxious moments—for if she did not recover, you see, I would have failed the examination.”

  “And did she?” Isabela asked.

  “Fortunately, yes.” And Evan had gained a healthy respect for even the most humble plants that grew in kail yard and field as well as formal garden. “Do you have any ability along that line? Perhaps you might have inherited it from your great-grandmother.”

  “Heavens, no,” Isabela said, skipping ahead to crush a leaf of lemon balm in her fingers and inhale the scent. “Mama says I have no talents save dancing and gossip.”

  “I do not believe that, for you have just chosen lemon balm, one of the most useful herbs in this garden.”

  “It smells nice.” She shrugged and dropped the remains of the leaf in the path. “Shall you and Senor San Gregorio dance with me this evening? You promised, and I shall hold you to it.”

  “I would not dream of disappointing a lady so kind,” Evan said, “though I am afraid it will be far past your bedtime.”

  The look she cast over her shoulder told him his error at once. “I am eighteen, and old enough to be courted,” she informed him with a tilt of her chin. “But do not get your hopes up—Papa is quite determined that I shall marry the heir to … San Gregorio.”

  Joe stopped fingering the lemon balm, and gave her his full attention. “Why that one, in particular?”

  She moved away to follow an orange butterfly whose wings were rimmed in black. “Beatriz is determined to be a nun, and Esperanza is already being courted by the heir to San Carlos Borromeo de Carmelo, so it is up to me to capture the heart of the Ambassador’s son.”

  “He has a son?” Joe turned away to gaze at what appeared to be a pasture in the distance. Horses grazed and leaned against the fence, black and glossy and as beautiful as any Evan had ever seen.

  “He has three, but only the eldest matters. He is fourteen and said to be only moderately attractive. He was certainly a homely child when I saw him last. I’ll wager he has pimples.” She made a face but only succeeded in looking utterly charming.

  “And what does he think of you?” Evan asked with some amusement.

  But she only shrugged. “It does not matter. I shall be mistress of the second largest rancho in the kingdom, with a father-in-law who is the Viceroy’s closest councilor. There will be visits to the capital, and balls, and there I will be, second lady in the land after the Vicereine.” She dimpled, the mischief back. “And both my sisters will have to curtsey to me.”

  “Why not aim for the top?” Joe asked with an edge that put his tone just on the near side of polite. “Why not be the first lady if you can—and to a man who is not a pimply wretch of fourteen?”

  “Because I have the sense God gave a goose,” she replied tartly. “Did you not observe our glorious Viceroy? He is said to be chosen of God—a prophet—a mystic whose visions are divine. Set apart from other men not only by blood and birthright, but by the hand of God. One cannot see such a man taking a girl to the marriage bed and dandling children on his knee, can one? One can barely imagine him surviving his dreadful burden for much longer.”

  Evan blinked, a little taken aback by a girl who could dance along the edge of treason with two strangers for partner. “Keep your voice down, senorita, if you please,” he managed.

  “Oh, no one here would betray me, and you two are already prisoners. What difference does it make? In truth, I find honesty quite refreshing. I am able to indulge in it so seldom.”

  In Evan’s mind, it made quite a lot of difference, but he did not say so. Clearly she believed them both so far out of her world that they made safe receptacles for shocking confidences—like whispering into the ear of a horse or a dog.

  “But how will marrying the Ambassador’s boy be any better? Are you content to settle for being only the second lady in the land?”

  The sparkle was back, and she wagged a finger at him. “How little you know of women—or of politics, sir. Clearly my father wants the best for me. It does not take a gazing ball to see that if the Viceroy is consumed by the fires of holiness, as some say, there will be a Regent appointed. And who better but the man who practically rules the kingdom now?”

  “But surely the people will not accept a ruler—be he Viceroy or Regent—who is not of the blood royal?” Joe objected.

  Evan had slept and eaten and labored next to him for weeks, but he had never heard this new note in his voice. A note borne of the same dawning realization that Evan himself was feeling, prickling in his fingertips and along the back of his neck.

  “Oh, there is blood royal,” she assured him. “In the mother country. I’m sure they will flush an heir out of the thicket of cousins and nephews of el Rey, but settling on one could take years. Do you not read your history books? The same thing happened in 1869 and 1802, and before that in 1751.”

  “So years pass, and then a new Viceroy arrives, and in the meanwhile, a Regent rules?”

  She smiled happily at Evan, a student who has given the right answer without prompting. “Si. Just so.”

  And what would Ambassador de Aragon y Villarreal make of that individual’s arrival? Evan could not see a man who would force his prince to declare war for the sake of imaginary gold as likely to accept a new ruler without a fight. “But what if—”

  “Isabela!” Fifty feet away, the duenna turned in fright at the sound of Senora de la Carrera y Borreaga’s voice, floating down from a casement window above them. “Return to the house at once. I need you here in my solar.”

  With a sigh and a roll of the eyes, Isabela called up, “Yo voy, Mama.” To Evan and Joe, she said, “I knew our walk would not last long. Mama is convinced that I shall be taken up by brigands—it is only a matter of time.”

  Joe touched his brow with two fingers. “Let us know when we can oblige. Thank you for showing us around.”

  With a giggle, she flitted down the gravel walk, collecting her unhappy duenna as she went.

  “I expect they will meet our soldiers on the path,” Evan predicted with some regret.

  “I expect so,” Joe agreed. “This family would do well to teach its daughters discretion, along with dancing and music, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I would indeed. Is she really that innocent, or has she been coached in order to lead us astray?”

  “From what?”

  “I have no idea. Why bother to lead us anywhere but back to a prison cell?”

  “Unless the family feels that in your efforts to interpret the Viceroy’s dreams, you will slant your words in one direction or another, and better to their advantage than not.”

  “That seems a bit convoluted,” Evan objected. “Why risk my telling their prince that the Ambassador plans to wrest the kingdom from him?”

  “Perhaps they secretly want him to know. Perhaps they are royalists to the core,” Joe said. “Though leaving such an important task to one so young and foolish seems risky.”

  “That is the understatement of the year.” Evan tucked a stem of the lemon balm through the buttonhole of his short jacket, where its refreshing scent would travel with him. “One would think, no matter the visions God is giving him, that the Viceroy and his councilors would have made contingency plans.”

  “He is young.”

  “He can’t be any older than you, and you are far from young—at heart, anyway.”

  “I haven’t lived as sheltered a life, nor had a book education. It is one thing to read about 1769 and 1802, and quite another to imagine it happening to oneself, I suppose. Ah, here they are.”

  The soldiers marched smartly around the corner of the house, shouting as though Evan and Joe were at this moment pelting toward the horses to make a break for it. “We should have escaped while we had the chance,” Joe said as they were surrounded.

  But Evan realized he woul
d not have gone even if the paddock had been wide open and the horses saddled and ready. He wanted to hear the Viceroy’s dreams. He wanted to listen to that boy’s voice, to discern whether he was intelligent enough to realize what his most trusted councilor was up to.

  And most of all, he wanted to exercise his skills as a doctor. For it was clear to him, if not anyone else on all these hundreds of thousands of acres, that the Viceroy was not merely a prophet of God, worn thin with reflecting the light of Heaven.

  He was very, very ill, and his time was running out.

  Chapter 17

  Gloria took a deep, fortifying breath as her husband gave their names to the majordomo, and that gentleman turned to announce them to the room.

  “El Capitan and Senora Stanford Fremont, of New York, London, and Philadelphia!”

  Dear me. That is laying it on a bit thick, isn’t it?

  They proceeded forward in the receiving line, Gloria’s hand in the crook of her husband’s elbow, her chin held high, her hair piled up in the latest fashion (or what had been the latest when she’d left Philadelphia in January, at any rate).

  “Senorita Ella Balboa and Senor James Kilpatrick of Denver, Colorado!”

  Gloria did her best to ignore the admiring glances—she appeared to be the only blonde in the great quadrangle of the grand house, and therefore looked quite exotic. Instead, she focused on the receiving line, and the young man whose uniform was so covered in ribbons and medals that he must be the Viceroy, sinking under the weight of them.

  Her only goal. The culmination of days of travel, of significant personal danger … and the sole reason, blast and bebother it, that there was a gold ring on her finger.

  She reached him, and sank into the deepest curtsey of which she was capable. “Your Serene Highness.” Beside her, Captain Stan bowed with the flourish of toe and hand due to persons of high standing, but the Viceroy did not seem to see him.