by Chris Paton
The man with the trolley smiled through the thin wisp of steam rising from the spout of the coffee pot as he parked by the side of Romney.
“Something from the cart, Fräulein Wallendorf?”
“Yes,” Romney pointed to a pastry topped with a plump cherry. “One of those, and a large coffee.”
“Jawol,” the man gave a formal bow and proceeded to serve Romney.
Robshaw glanced at the two other men as they approached Bremen. The larger of the two stood to one side, arms folded across his broad chest. The thinner, older man, bowed to Bremen and handed him a sheaf of notes.
“These are all from the front?” Bremen took the notes and leafed through them.
“Nein, Herr Bremen,” the man gestured at the notes. “If I may?” Bremen waited as the man pulled a dog-eared note from the sheaf. “This one,” the man held out his hand for the remaining notes.
“The others can wait?”
“Ja, mein Herr.”
Bremen studied the note and sighed. “They can’t deal with this in Frankfurt?”
“The emissaries, mein Herr, are from your division.”
“Very well.” Bremen snapped his fingers at the guard behind him. “Fetch Fräulein von Ense.”
The guard nodded. Crossing to the elevator he tugged the earpiece free of its mount and wound the handle three times. A bell rang far below the fourth floor. The guard spoke into the phone and returned to his position behind Bremen. The rasping of the elevator rope running through the pulley masked the guard’s heavy footsteps.
“Trouble?” Holding out his hand to receive a cup of coffee from the trolley, Robshaw looked at Bremen.
“Nothing a quick telegram cannot take care of,” Bremen waved his hand. “How are the pastries, Romney?”
“Good,” Romney wiped the sugar icing from her lips with the back of her hand. The elevator returned. Romney finished the pastry as a woman stepped out of the elevator and walked toward Bremen. The heels of her shoes tapping on the floorboards like the beat of an expensive clock. Precise. Confident. Calculated.
“Herr Bremen,” the woman stopped by the side of Bremen’s armchair. She flicked her eyes at Romney. “Must the girl stare?”
“Fräulein Wallendorf?” Bremen laughed. “She is only five years younger than you, Hannah.”
“Wallendorf?” The woman raised her right eyebrow. She stared at Romney. “That would explain the dirt.”
“Now, now, Hannah,” Bremen leaned forward in his chair. “Romney is my guest.” Reaching out with his hand, Bremen twisted his fingers within Hannah’s right hand. “Introduce yourself, Hannah. Go on.”
Hannah tugged her hand free of Bremen’s fingers and crossed the floor to stand in front of Romney. Bending forward, Hannah presented Romney with her hand. “Hannah von Ense,” she gripped the steamracer’s fingers as Romney placed her hand in hers. “I know your father,” Hannah’s lips spread into a languid smile.
“How?” Romney pulled her hand free of Hannah’s.
“He has a taste for young and expensive things.” Hannah turned away from Romney and smiled at Robshaw. “I am both.” Hannah winked at Romney as she crossed the floor to stand by her employer. Romney glared at her.
“Hannah is my personal assistant and telegrapher,” Bremen explained. “Hannah,” he gestured at Romney and Robshaw sitting on the sofa, “these are our guests. I want you to treat them as such.”
“Yes, Herr Bremen.” Hannah pulled a slim notepad from the pocket of her black corseted jacket suit. Switching the notepad to her other hand she smoothed the flap of the pocket flat against the fabric and ran her fingers along the hem of the suit tail. Romney watched her through narrowed eyelids. “Do you like the style, Fräulein?”
“Too pinched for my liking,” Romney spat.
“Pinched?” Hannah rolled her eyes. “Really?” She opened her mouth to speak.
“That’s enough, Hannah,” Bremen drummed his fingers on the worn arm of the chair. “Take down this message and have it telegraphed immediately.”
“Ja, mein Herr,” Hannah ignored Romney, tugged a pencil from her pocket and waited.
“Emissaries approved for A. STOP. Immediate despatch. STOP. B. STOP.”
Hannah finished writing and slipped the notepad and pencil into their respective pockets. “Archangelsk?” she mouthed.
“Hannah,” Bremen cautioned.
“My apologies, mein Herr,” Hannah bowed. “I won’t mention it again.”
“I will see you later.” Bremen flicked a finger in the direction of the elevator. “It might be late.”
“Ja, mein Herr,” Hannah flicked her eyes at Romney before finishing her bow. “I will wait.”
The ticking of the Hannah’s heels was drowned by the flat footsteps of Bremen’s men and the feint squeak of trolley wheels as Bremen and his guests were left alone on the fourth floor. Romney and Robshaw watched them leave.
“Archangelsk is in the north, I believe.” Robshaw sipped his coffee.
“It is nothing to concern you,” Bremen stifled a yawn with his fist. “Let us talk about the race. I have a special request to make of you, Fräulein. It is a matter of importance and something that concerns both of you.”
“And that is?” Romney waited until the elevator car had disappeared from her sight before turning to look at Bremen.
“I want you to lose the race.”
҉
Hari stopped at the corner of Marsh Wall, Isle of Dogs. He leaned against the wooden wall of a warehouse and scanned the length of Mastmaker Road for as far as he could see in the gloom of night. The rain dripped through Hari’s beard. His turban hung heavy on his head. Hari’s chest heaved as he fought to catch his breath. He looked up at the cry of the hawk.
“What do you see, Shahin?” Hari pushed himself off the wall. Shahin soared above him, the white underside of her flight feathers the only visible part of her body.
A casual movement caught Hari’s eye. He gripped the pommel of his kukri.
Crossing to the middle of the road, a tall figure stopped and beckoned to Hari.
“Why don’t you come closer, eh?”
“Why?” Hari wiped the rain from his beard.
“I want you to.”
“Truly? And why is that?”
“Well,” the man chuckled. “You’re the one who’s been chasing me half the night. You telling me you don’t want to meet me now?”
“All right,” Hari let go of the kukri and crossed to the middle of the road.
“That’s it. You come to me. Walk slowly now, eh?”
The wet leather of Hari’s sandals rubbed at his bare skin, chafing the tops of his feet. Hari glanced up as Shahin swooped low above his head.
“Is she going to behave herself?” the man ducked as Shahin turned in the air above him.
“Truly, I do not know,” Hari stopped a few yards in front of the man.
“There you are,” the man wiped his brow with a hairy hand. “The name’s Blaidd,” he waved. “Pronounced Blythe.”
“Blythe?”
“It’s Welsh,” Blaidd raised his eyebrows. “Who are you?”
“My name is Hari Singh,” Hari bowed.
“You’re a long way from home, Hari Singh. What brings you to London, eh?”
“That is a long story,” Hari squeezed the rainwater from his sleeves.
“Tell me the short version,” Blaidd squinted up at the rain. “Before we drown.”
“I am looking out for Miss Hanover.”
“And she is?”
“The young woman you stole from today. The one you shot.”
“Right,” Blaidd nodded. Reaching into his coat Blaidd took a step forward.
“Do you still have it?”
“What? Oh,” Blaidd laughed as he pulled a butterfly knife from his pocket. “Oh, no, Hari Singh. You see, I have finished my deliveries for this evening. I am on my way home.” The knife flashed as Blaidd flicked it open.
“You no longer have Miss H
anover’s machine?”
Blaidd pointed behind him with the tip of the knife. “That building over there. The tall one with the lights burning.” He turned back to Hari. “They paid well for that machine of hers.” Blaidd frowned. “Maybe it was worth a bit more, eh? You came running all this way for it. In the rain. What’s it do?”
“I am not sure,” Hari glanced at the shadows as armed men crept out from under the wooden eaves of the buildings lining the road. “Are these men your friends, Mr. Blaidd?”
“Something like that,” Blaidd smiled, his teeth crooked in the soft glow of the street lamps.
“Are their knives as small as yours?” Hari nodded at the butterfly knife as Blaidd twirled the handle within his hand.
“Some of them,” Blaidd agreed. “But they are not all carrying knives.
Hari turned at the blister of green sparks as one of the men dialled up the power of his charged baton.
“Are you going to come quietly, Hari Singh?”
“I used to do things very quietly,” Hari sighed.
“There are four of us, Mr. Singh,” Blaidd pointed at the three men. “Just the one of you. Unless you have some friends we don’t know about, eh?”
Hari drew the blade of his kukri from the scabbard on his belt. The bent blade reflected the streetlight as he pulled it free. Hari winced and swapped hands.
“Something wrong with your hand, eh?”
“My right hand, yes.” Hari showed his palm to Blaidd.
“Looks nasty.” Blaidd nodded. “Fire was it?”
“No,” Hari spun a slow circle. He nodded at the man with the baton. “One of those, actually.”
“Fair enough.” Blaidd clicked his fingers. “Right then, lads. Four against one.”
“Two,” Hari changed his stance.
“Two?”
“Truly,” Hari smiled as Shahin dived, talons extended, toward the man with the baton.
Chapter 8
Old Pye Polytechnic, Dept. of Chronology
London, England
May, 1851
Smith slid on a smear of blood on the floor of the carriage. Removing his jacket he tore the sleeves from his shirt and pressed them against the wound in Luise’s abdomen.
“Mr. Smith?” Luise pressed the tips of her fingers against the legs of the carriage bench.
“I am sorry, Miss Hanover. There are no more bandages.” Smith took a long breath. The rain petered upon the carriage roof. “Honestly, I don’t know what to do. I cannot staunch the flow of blood.” Reaching for Luise’s fingers Smith held them in his own. “It is slow, but worryingly steady.”
“It’s all right, Mr. Smith.”
“No, Miss Hanover. It is not.”
The carriage rocked with the thump of something heavy crashing into the door. Smith let go of Luise’s hand and moved to the window. He pulled the glass pane down and peered out.
“See what I found, Smith,” Egmont gripped the collar of a man dressed in black sodden clothes. He pressed him against the door. The carriage driver stood to one side, the Polyphase rifle in his hands levelled at Egmont’s prisoner. “Says his name is Armbrüster and that he knows where your friend Singh has gone.”
“Really?” Smith leaned out of the window. “What else does he have to say?”
“Why don’t we find out along the way,” Egmont pulled Armbrüster away from the door. The carriage driver opened it and Egmont shoved the German inside. “All right, Luise?”
“She is weak, Reginald.” Smith gripped the rifle as the driver handed it to him. “Not a lot of space inside.”
“Not to worry,” Egmont smiled. “I am used to a bit of inclement weather. I will ride in the fo’c’sle, up top.” Egmont closed the door. “Keep an eye on our guest and see what you can find out.”
“Where are we headed?”
“The Isle of Dogs.” Egmont took a step back from the door. “If your man Singh is as good as you say he is, he’ll be on his way there. If he gets hold of this machine,” Egmont glanced at Luise, “I think we had better be ready to use it. As quickly as possible.”
“I agree.” Smith moved to close the window. “Don’t spare the horses.”
“Horses?” Egmont shook his head. “Horses are for green pastures. Come on,” he slapped the driver on the shoulder, “steam up.”
҉
Parrying the thrusts and strikes of two of Blaidd’s men, Hari spun the kukri within his grip, using the pommel to strike the sternum of the knifeman closest to him. The man staggered backward. Hari advanced toward the second assailant. The man fidgeted, his feet shuffling backward as Hari stalked toward him.
“Your friend is hurt,” Hari nodded at the man clutching his chest. “He needs help.”
The man flicked his eyes at the screech of the hawk. The air was a mix of beating wings and blistering sparks as the man with the baton described protective arcs in the middle of the street. Shahin hovered above him. The rain fizzled and spat along the length of the baton.
“Come on, man,” Blaidd sneered. “Finish him, eh?”
“You don’t have to listen to him,” Hari nodded in Blaidd’s direction. His thumb pointing upward, Hari held his forearm straight. Advancing toward the knifeman, Hari used the blade of the kukri like a shield.
“Don’t dawdle,” Blaidd called out. “Take him down. What do you think I am paying you for?”
As Hari forced the knifeman past his partner, he paused a moment to swing the kukri blade flat against the back of the wheezing man’s head. He dropped to the ground, his teeth crunching on the surface of the road.
“That could be you.” Hari moved the kukri back into the shield position. He glanced to the side looking for Blaidd. “Do you want that? Truly?”
“No,” the man whispered. He stumbled over a rut in the road.
“I didn’t think so. This isn’t your fight. Why don’t you drop your blade and run back to the shadows?” Hari smiled. “You can come back for your friend later.” Hari stopped his advance as the butterfly knife clattered on the road. “A good choice.” The man fled up the road.
“Looks like it is just you and me now, eh?” Blaidd stepped in front of Hari. “Look what your bird did to my man?” He pointed the tip of his knife toward the baton fizzing and spitting in a puddle on the road.
“Where is your man?”
“A good question,” Blaidd shrugged. “Never trust an Englishman, eh?”
“I have met many Englishmen,” Hari raised the kukri.
“And what did you make of them?” Blaidd ducked down and picked up the knife. Shifting his grip on both knives, he raised his fists, the blade of both knives pointing downward. “Were they weak?” Blaidd feinted to Hari’s left, throwing a blow to his side with his left hand. Hari staggered backward. Blaidd licked the rain from his lips and closed the gap.
“Some were weak,” Hari nodded. Sliding his wet sandals to the left, he circled around Blaidd. “Some were not.” Hari dropped to one knee and curled the back of the kukri behind Blaidd’s knee, flipping the Welshman off balance and onto his back.
Hari leaped forward, the point of the kukri sighted upon Blaidd’s chest. Blaidd tucked his fists to his chest. Thumbs pressed against the wet fabric of his coat, the blades pointing upward, he straightened both arms and skewered Hari through both shoulders. Hari fell to his knees. The bent blade of the kukri clattered on the road.
Blaidd rolled onto his side and pushed himself to his feet. He bent down to pick up the kukri.
“This is nice.” Blaidd held the kukri in his right hand, twisting it back and forth in the dim light from the streetlamps. “Where did you say you got it?”
“I didn’t,” Hari grimaced. Grasping the handle of the knife sticking out of his right shoulder, Hari tugged it free. He leaned back on his ankles and grunted.
“Hurts, eh?” Blaidd twirled the kukri in his right hand. He pointed the tip of the kukri at Hari’s left shoulder. “You want to take that one out? I can wait.”
Hari
cocked his head to one side and stared at Blaidd. “Are you playing with me?”
“Me?” Blaidd laughed. “Nah, I don’t play around.”
“Truly?” Hari winced as he gripped the handle of the butterfly knife in his right hand.
“That’s your bad hand, isn’t it?” Blaidd slapped the kukri flat against his thigh.
“Yes,” Hari took a breath.
“Best to just get it over with.” Blaidd wiped a trickle of rain from his nose. “Quick like.”
“You are most helpful,” Hari gritted his teeth. Blood from both wounds seeped into Hari’s maroon shirt as he pulled the second butterfly knife out of his left shoulder. Hari opened his palm and stared at the knife, at the rain washing the blood from the blade.
“Ready for more, eh?” Blaidd circled Hari. Drawing level with Hari’s face, he stopped and assumed a fighting stance.
Hari scanned the dark skies above for signs of Shahin.
“The bird’s gone,” Blaidd spat onto the road.
“She has a habit of doing that. Most unreliable.”
“So, it’s just you and me now.”
“Yes.” Hari picked up the second knife from the road. Rocking back onto the soles of his feet, Hari straightened. Squaring off in front of Blaidd, he stared the Welshman in the eyes. “That is my knife.”
“That’s right,” Blaidd flashed Hari a grin.
“I intend to take it back.”
“Of course you do.” Blaidd shifted his grip on the kukri and lunged forward.
҉
“You want me to lose?” Romney rocked forward on the sofa and swung her legs over the side. She planted her grease-stained boots on the wooden floor. “Lose?” She stood up. “I don’t understand. Why did you bring all these new steamracers? What about Wallendorf’s research and development?” Romney stood up and strode to the rail around the top of the stairs. Gripping the rail she turned around and pointed at Bremen. Her finger shook. “Does my father know?”
“Are you finished?” Bremen inclined his head toward Romney. Gesturing at the sofa with his right hand he reached for his cane and stood up. “Sit down, Fräulein, and I will explain.”
