"So if you know you're going to die, what else could possibly motivate you?" he asked. "What could I ever offer you that would convince you to tell me what I want to know? Well, that depends. Do you want a quiet funeral? Or a noisy one?"
Agrippa's eyes narrowed.
"Because if you tell me what I want to know, then I'll just kill you quick and painlessly and walk out of your life. But if you don't tell me what I want to know—or even worse, if I find out you lied to me—then I'm going to be angry. And when I get angry, I go to funerals. You don't think there'll be anyone you care about showing up at your funeral, hm? Do you?"
A low and rumbling growl escaped from his throat. "You sonofa—"
"So what will it be? A quiet funeral? Or," and here he tapped the pommel of his pistol with his index finger, "a noisy one?"
A long and tense moment stretched out in the quiet of the house's basement. At last, Agrippa grunted and closed his eyes.
"What d'ya want to know."
"My contacts tell me there was a little barbecue in the Rookery the other night."
"What about it?"
"Apparently, a couple was in attendance. One of them was Arcadia Snips; the other I don’t know. Introduce me."
"William," he said, spitting. "William Daffodil."
"What are they doing together?"
"Investigatin' something. About Basil Copper, an engineer who worked at the Steamwork. Got 'imself killed a few days back, Snips is out to find out by who."
"Where can I find Arcadia?"
"Don't know," he said.
"That's a step towards a noisy funeral."
"I don't know!" he snapped, straining his muscle against the ropes—and for a moment the assassin grew agitated at the possibility that Agrippa could snap through them like a train snapping through twine. But he soon relaxed when he saw that the giant could not escape the bindings.
"Give me something."
"She's with that other fella," Agrippa said. "She might be holed up in his place."
"I see. Is there anything I should know about her? Any surprises she might have in store for me?"
"Snips?" Agrippa said. "You might manage to kill her..."
"I expect that I will."
"But she'll charge you an eye for the right."
The assassin shrugged. "Whatever." He plucked his pistol off the table and slid it back into its holster. Then, just as he was turning to go, he stopped and looked back at him. "Oh, I almost forgot—remember what I said about a quick death?"
"Eh?"
He tugged the rope free, dropping Agrippa back into the barrel full of water on his way out. "I lied."
~*~
CHAPTER 17: IN WHICH, TO NO ONE'S SURPRISE, OUR TITULAR PROTAGONIST ACTS SCANDALOUS
~*~
The smoking lounge was drenched in the tangerine haze of the morning light. The sun-drizzled stretch of Snips' slumbering figure was draped next to William's in a manner that might have been described as scandalous if it were not for the several mathematical books and blueprints that lay beside them on the cot.
Those readers familiar with fiction of a more racy sort (though we would never accuse you, dear reader, of such indiscretions) might recall that scenarios such as these are often followed by a rapid succession of disasters leading to the most embarrassing situation possible. As the man awakens, the shock of realizing he has spent the night arm-in-arm with a woman incites him to leap to his feet and trip over a strategically placed feline, landing him straight atop the now-awake companion; the ruckus this produces soon rouses the butler to action, who bursts into the room and, seeing the young damsel in the arms of the gentleman, assumes scandal is afoot. This is followed by the stuttering red-faced explanations, the prideful shouts, the accusations, the inevitable attempts at reconciliation, so on, so on, et cetera, et cetera.
These readers may be both surprised and disheartened to learn that no such event occurred. The reason why can be traced to several facts: William Daffodil slept like the dead, Jacob Watts had neither feline nor butler (he considered both to be beastly creatures), and Snips awoke first and was sufficiently well-versed in fiction of this sort to avoid that very scenario.
Snips withdrew herself from William with all the care she gave to barbed wire, slipping free without disturbing so much as a wheatgold lock. She brushed herself off, straightened her clothes, and paused in front of the mirror.
A dirty silver-toothed vagrant stared back.
"Hmph," she said, arching back to admire her profile. There wasn't much to admire; she was hard where she should have been soft and sharp where she should have been smooth. She looked back to William, sleeping serenely on the cot. She glanced about to make sure neither Miss Primrose or Detective Watts were up and about; she then skillfully slipped back into William's arms.
She wriggled about until she was comfortable, drawing in a slow breath. Then, with great care, she took William's wrist and slapped his hand down to the side of her bottom.
"Ah! Villainy!" she cried, springing from his grip with enough violence to rouse the mathematician from his slumber.
"Scandal!"
William was awake in an instant, flailing about as he fell from the cot. At once, he leapt to his feet, red-faced and surprised.
"Wh—what? What's happened? What's going on?"
Snips pointed her finger at him, her eyes flashing with accusation. "You, sir, are a beast. Taking advantage of a hapless damsel. The shame!"
William stuttered for a reply. "I—I beg your pardon, Madame?"
"No pardon will be given, not today," Snips said. "You have stained my reputation as an upstanding Lady—"
"I beg your pardon?!"
"—and now you must make restitution," she said, and then she darted forward, pinning him. She shoved her palms against the wall, keeping his waist between her arms; she threw her head up, her face looming just beneath his chin. "My honor demands it!"
Rather than try to escape, William grew still. The mathematician watched her with a thoughtful expression that quickly made Snips uncomfortable; she imagined it was the sort of look he gave mathematical equations right before completing them. It made her feel as if he was about to solve her for X.
Snips narrowed her eyes. "What?"
William squinted back. "You are a very peculiar person."
"Yes, yes, I know." Snips dropped her arms and stepped away. "No need to rub it in."
"Oh, no," William said. "I don't mean it like that. I like peculiar people."
Snips peered at him; William did his best not to blush.
"Don't get any funny ideas," she told him. "You're a pleasant sort of fellow, but I don't do relationships. Too complicated. Not worth the trouble."
"You are making a rather large assumption there," William pointed out.
She stiffened. "Well, what I mean is—"
William smiled. "But truth be told, I think that under different circumstances, I'd be quite smitten with you. You're very lovely when you aren't acting like a brigand."
"Um—" Snips shuffled where she stood, taken aback. "—
uh, that is—"
William took her hand; he brought the back of her knuckles up to his mouth and gave them a gentle kiss. It was the sort of silly gesture that was supposed to inspire fancy ladies to swoon; it was the kind of romantic flop-trop best reserved for third-rate plays and guileless Romeos.
"Your pardon, Madame." William straightened back up and headed down the stairs.
For the first time that she could remember, Snips' cheeks burned.
~*~
Miss Primrose was enjoying breakfast out on the makeshift dock. Snips adjusted her hat as she made her way towards her hostess, humming a soft tune.
"Did you sleep well?" Miss Primrose asked, voice buzzing with disapproval.
"Oh, come off it," Snips said, still working off the previous blush. "I didn't do anything. We just fell asleep while trying to iron out the details of Basil's model."
"As you like, Miss
Snips," she said, although it was clear that Miss Primrose remained unsatisfied.
"What's our next move?"
"Mr. Eddington is our chief suspect," Miss Primrose said.
"It seems certain he is up to no good."
"Yeah, that's what I was thinking. We're going to need more evidence, though. Right?"
"Correct."
"So I'll head on down to the Steamwork," Snips said. "See if I can't dig anything up that I shouldn't dig up."
"Mr. Eddington is unlikely to cooperate. Besides, the Steamwork is closed today."
"I won't be going there during working hours," Snips pointed out.
Miss Primrose blanched. "You intend to break in?"
"What? Did I say break in?" Snips feigned outrage. "Me?
Break the law? Madame, I am offended by your insinuation!"
"Miss Snips, I cannot condone—"
"Relax. You don't need to 'condone' anything. Just go and tell Susan what we've found so far."
"Susan?"
"Count Orwick," Snips said.
"Very well, then," Miss Primrose said, scowling. "You will go about your own particular 'investigation', and I shall inform our employer as to our recent discoveries. Shall we return here by, say, eight o’clock?"
"Eight o'clock it is," Snips said.
"Very well. Try to get it right this time, Miss Snips."
As Snips turned away from the deck, she caught sight of William picking his way around the manorhouse. Ignoring Miss Primrose's disapproving glare, Snips ran off to catch him on his way out the gate.
"Hey," Snips said. "Wait a moment, eh?"
"Erm, oh, I beg your pardon," William said. "I've only now just realized I'm late for my grandmother's little party—"
"Oh, visiting your grandmum, eh? Mind if I tag along?"
Snips asked.
"I—um. I'm not sure if that's entirely wise," William said.
"Really, now? Afraid I'll scare her off?" Snips grinned.
"Oh, I doubt that," William said. "I doubt that very much."
"Well, I want to talk with you a little bit, before you run off to wherever," Snips said. "So I'll come along, if that's alright."
"I suppose," William said, resisting the urge to squirm about in his clothes. "But, you must understand. My grandmother's very, ah, strange..."
"I'm sure I'll manage."
~*~
CHAPTER 18: IN WHICH WE RETURN TO THE PAST ONCE AGAIN TO DISCUSS GRAVE MATTERS CONCERNING WAR AND MATHEMATICS
~*~
"Good evening, Nigel," Abigail said, greeting him at the laboratory doorway. Mrs. Daffodil was dressed in a sky-blue high-collar blouse with a frilled lace front and cinch belt above a pair of dark mahogany bloomers. Her cheeks were stained with grease and her favorite pair of goggles were pulled high upon her temples. She had bound her hair up into a tightly curled bun, so as to avoid getting it caught in the churning network of machines that ran behind her. "Here for Jeremiah, I take it?"
Nigel removed his hat. "Indeed," he said. "Well, for the both of you, actually."
"Hn. I assumed this was a social call of some sort."
"No, not at all. It is a matter of grave business. Where is Jeremiah?"
"Playing with his toys," she said, her voice containing no small amount of disapproval. She stepped deep into the laboratory, picking her way past tables brimming with all manner of alchemical reagents and strange contraptions. Among them was placed a cradle of pine containing a bundled up babe. Nigel paused a moment to admire the Daffodils' child; he slept despite the laboratory's noise, the constant snarl of gearworks serving as a mechanical lullaby.
"We're a bit worried about him," Abigail said, noticing Nigel's interest in the child. "I moved him down to the laboratory, where I can keep an eye on him. While keeping an eye on Jeremiah, I mean."
"Worried?" Nigel asked.
"He has bouts of weakness," she said. "I fear he may have inherited my father's weak heart."
"Hm."
An explosion flared up in the back of the laboratory, rattling Nigel's molars. Abigail spat a series of unlady-like curses and stomped her way toward the smoldering corridor.
"Jeremiah!" she cried. "Stop it! We have a guest!"
"Guests?" Jeremiah said, thrusting his head out from the door. His own goggles were pulled over his eyes; his entire face was covered in a thick layer of ash and soot. When he saw Nigel, he immediately grinned. "Oh, hello Nigel! I was just thinking about you—"
"Jeremiah, Abigail," Nigel continued. "It is a pleasure to see you both, and a meeting between us is long over-due—but I am not here to exchange pleasantries, I fear. There is a matter we must discuss. Immediately."
Jeremiah frowned; Abigail nodded. "We'll talk in the lobby," she said.
~*~
"The numbers do not lie," Nigel said from the comfort of a lush chair. "War is coming."
Abigail leaned against the crackling hearth. Jeremiah sat beside her, trying to soothe their babe in his arms. Neither seemed particularly dumbstruck by Nigel's announcement.
"Perhaps you do not understand," he said. "After analyzing the last packet of data you sent, the result is clear. Our country will soon be at war—"
"We know," Jeremiah said, sounding particularly sullen.
"I beg your pardon?"
"We've known for some time," Abigail agreed.
Nigel blanched. "How?"
"We have our own probability engine, now," Jeremiah explained.
"You—you what? But we agreed—"
"We agreed to not misuse the probability engine for our own ends," Abigail replied. "And we have not. Our only purpose for building the engine was prediction and experimentation; we have not used it to create results. We have, however, used it to monitor your use," she said, her voice thick with ire.
Nigel sank back into the chair, turning his attention to the fire.
Jeremiah nodded. "I told her about our discussion concerning the thought experiment you presented to me a year ago.
Despite your desire for secrecy, I had to tell her. I was terrified at the notion that you would actually try it."
"I suggested that we build our own engine, solely for the purpose of monitoring whether or not you were making changes without our knowledge," Abigail continued. "And lo and behold—
not quite to my surprise—we discovered you were. Extensively."
"You've been changing things without our permission," Jeremiah said.
"Yes," Nigel said. "I confess. But the changes I have wrought—they have all been for the greater good. I have prevented famines; averted calamities. Saved lives—"
"And created at least one," Abigail said, her voice as penetrating as a syringe. "Do not act as if you have done this in the better interest of the world at large, Nigel. Your motivation has always been curiosity. Moreso than even my husband," she added, throwing Jeremiah a look as he gently bounced young William on his lap. "You did these things because you wanted to see if you could."
"Perhaps," Nigel said with reluctance. "Yes, perhaps you are correct. But now—now, we are faced with a true calamity. A catastrophe of immense enormity. If these numbers are correct, this will be a war that will swallow up hundreds of thousands—"
"Millions," Abigail corrected him. "It will be a war to end all others. It will be fought with horrible weapons beyond comprehension, placed in the hands of kings and queens leading armies of nationalists and patriots. It will be accompanied by plague, disease, and famine. Entire generations will cease to exist."
"We must stop it," Nigel said. "Surely, if the engine has ever had a purpose, this must be it!"
"No," Abigail replied. "No, we musn't."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Think of all the world's civilizations as an immense boiler; famine, drought, conflict—these are the valves through which pressure is released. Over the past few years, you have been shutting each of those valves off, gradually increasing the pressure," Abigail said.
"Are you saying I am res
ponsible for the very war these numbers predict?"
"No," Abigail said. "Of course not. It would have come, one way or another, as a natural consequence of technological progress. But each disaster you have stopped has only added to the strength that this disaster shall inflict."
"How long do we have?" Nigel asked.
"Two decades at most," she said. "We could delay it, but that would only make the event more horrific than it already is."
"Is there no way to stop it?" Nigel asked. "No way we can stifle it?"
"It is too soon and too vast," she said. "No flapping of a butterfly's wings can deflect it. Only an enormous event could hope to counter it, and even then, I am not sure if it would be stopped—only postponed."
"How can you be so calm about this?!" Nigel fumed.
"Because there is nothing that can be done," Abigail told him. "No remedy, no cure, no panacea. There will be war, Nigel.
The world will suffer. We cannot save it. All we can do is care for those around us and pray for the best."
"You spoke of an enormous event being able to counter this," Nigel said. "How enormous?"
Abigail shook her head. "It's an absurd premise to begin with, Nigel. There is no way to fight this."
"Tell me. How enormous?"
"We meddled in matters best left to chance. Leave it be."
"Tell me," Nigel said, and there was a force and fury behind him that gave both Abigail and her husband reason for pause. "Tell me what would be necessary. If only to convince me that it is impossible."
Abigail sighed. "A nation collapsing. A world-wide depression. Tens of thousands dying. A city disappearing overnight. Any of these events could accomplish the task, in theory —and do you notice what they all have in common, Nigel?"
Once again, Nigel turned back to the fire.
"They all involve murder," Abigail said, pressing on. "They all involve inflicting harm now, to deflect harm later. They all involve taking the matter into our own hands, and doing violence to our fellow man."
"Abigail," Jeremiah said, speaking softly. "None of us would do something like that."
"No," Nigel agreed, staring unceasingly into the heart of the fire. "None of us would."
Arcadia Snips and the Steamwork Consortium Page 13
