Trafalgar Boone and the Children of the Burnt Empire

by Geonn Cannon

  She wished she knew what Dorothy and Trix were discussing behind closed doors. They tended to be very open around her, perhaps too open in some cases. She blushed when she remembered some of the conversations they’d had over breakfast. They loved to recount the origin of bruises and “love-bites” they inflicted on one another. Lately, however, it had been a struggle to get more than three words out of Dorothy, and Beatrice became taciturn in response. It was a highly awkward situation and one she felt had been on the verge of collapse for days.

  Trafalgar moved closer to the door and listened. Was that a sob? She worried her bottom lip with her teeth, one hand flat against the wall and the other resting on the knob. Perhaps Dorothy felt closer to Beatrice. It made sense, of course, as they’d known one another longer. But she wanted Dorothy to know she had more than one confidant in the house. A second sob came from within the office, and Trafalgar was convinced of what had to be done. Dorothy needed her support.

  She twisted the knob and stepped into the office.

  Beatrice was sitting on the desk with her back to the door. One bare leg was up, knee bent. One of Dorothy’s hands had vanished under the tails of Beatrice’s shirt, while the other... well, Trafalgar could guess where the other was, even if the idea made her blush. The sobs she’d heard from outside were louder now and it was obvious what they really were.

  For a moment, Trafalgar remained where she was. Her interest wasn’t purely prurient. Seeing her engaged in this activity was an enormously welcome sign that things might be returning to normal. She was still considering this when the top of Dorothy lifted her head and looked past the curve of Beatrice’s hip. One eyebrow was lifted.

  “You’re more than welcome to watch, Miss Trafalgar,” Dorothy said, “but you might want to find somewhere more comfortable as I intend to be here for a while.”

  Trafalgar cleared her throat. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  Beatrice twisted at the waist and smiled. “Bye, Trafalgar.”

  “Good-bye, Trix. Ah... e-enjoy yourselves, ladies...”

  She closed the door and retreated down the stairs, laughing in spite of her embarrassment. Yes, it was inappropriate of them to engage in such behavior even in a semi-private space like Dorothy’s office. And yes, it was inconsiderate of Dorothy to run off to god-knew-where without explaining herself to put their minds at ease. And yes, she was furious at herself for being embarrassed by Dorothy’s teasing. In other words, it was just like the old days, and it was a very encouraging sign that normalcy was on the horizon.

  Chapter One

  Dorothy’s arrangement with the Yeovil Street Gentlemen’s Club was simple: the first man to defeat her in fencing would have the honor of not only escorting her from the premises, but he would be responsible for proving women don’t belong in their esteemed company. On her first visit, when she was still a ward of her grandmother, she asked to face their weakest swordsman. “After all, if I cannot beat him then surely I pose no threat to any of you.” Her challenge played to their egos, and every man present knew it was a mere formality. There was no chance she could defeat one of them. The point was moot. So surely one bout with a girl was a small price to pay for silence from any other woman asking to join their ranks.

  There was some dissent about who, exactly, was their weakest man. Eventually one was chosen, and he angrily stepped forward prepared to prove his mettle. He glared at her through their salute, eyes locked on her until he pulled his mask down to obscure his face. Dorothy was wearing a borrowed uniform, awkward and bulky and too large.

  Her first match was over in seconds and an utter embarrassment. She was too cocky and prepared her attack within striking distance, suffering a blow to her sword arm which left her shaken. Her opponent, seeing an opportunity to save face and defend his club’s discriminatory policy all at the same time, showed her no mercy. She left the piste to the sound of cheers and offers to buy the victor drinks. They had stopped thinking about her by the time she was out of the room, so none of them noticed that she took the borrowed foil with her.

  Dorothy practiced at home with her grandmother. She read books and watched public performances to see how it looked in practice. She learned it like a foreigner picking up a new language. She immersed herself in the conversation of those who spoke it fluently: lunge, parry, counter-parry, riposte, retreat. She left marks on her grandmother’s coatrack which remained to this day, evidence of poor attacks and failed feints.

  When she returned to Yeovil Street two months later, she made the same offer. She would do her best against their worst, and the first man to defeat her could kick her out of the club. The same man who had originally defeated her stepped forward again. Dorothy raised her weapon to salute him. He smiled, already victorious in his mind. She winked and lowered her mask, dropped her sword, and the match began.

  She made short work of him. His overconfidence led to several sloppy mistakes which she was now adept enough to take advantage of.

  One of the men grumbled, “I believe the time has come for you to take your leave, young lady.”

  “I will leave when my conditions have been met.” She held out her blade and swept the point slowly across the crowd of spectators. “Which of you will earn the right to dismiss me from this place, hmm? I’ll stand against any man willing to face me.”

  An older man with ash blonde whiskers stepped forward. There was no chance he was a novice, but she nonetheless accepted his challenge. He was brutal and mean in his attacks, which gave her more openings than she’d expected. His rage made him sloppy and he forgot his training. He swung his foil like he was trying to swat a fly. Dorothy took advantage of his mistakes but she was still no match for him. Eventually his skills won out and she had to admit defeat. He removed his mask and tossed it aside, not looking at her when he said, “Now get the hell out of here, and don’t come back.”

  “Frightened of a rematch?” Dorothy said. “Worried now that I know your tricks, I’ll be able to win the next time we face each other?”

  “Know your place, girl.”

  “I know my place,” Dorothy said. “I just have to get past its gatekeepers.” She tucked her mask under her sword arm, extending the opposite hand to the man who had defeated her. “I believe it’s customary to shake hands after a match.”

  He finally looked at her. After a long pause, he walked back, gripped her hand, and squeezed. Dorothy refused to flinch or even blink as she met his gaze.

  “This is not a sport for women,” he said under his breath.

  “Not yet,” Dorothy said, “but I believe all things can be improved with enough effort.”

  He dropped her hand.

  “Thank you for the matches, gentlemen. I look forward to our next bout.”

  The next time she visited, she was defeated by her first opponent. A month after that, she survived three in a row before she lost. She quickly learned that every man she faced, no matter their skill, shared the same fault: they treated their matches like a battle. Dorothy knew it was more graceful than that. It was dancing, only with a winner. Eventually she was winning matches against anyone who took up her challenge. She left when she was tired, and not a moment before.

  Now she had been coming so long that she was senior to some of the official members. It became a rite of passage. Every man wanted to be the one who sent her packing once and for all. Unfortunately by this point, Dorothy was more skilled than any of them could hope to be. They were crude, amateurish. Some of them managed to win due to superior strength, sheer dumb luck, or a bad day on Dorothy’s part. When it came to skill, however, the men of the Yeovil Street Gentlemen’s Club simply no longer provided a challenge for her.

  It had been quite some time since she took up a blade, but she returned in an attempt to get back to normalcy. Going out was a chance to get some fresh air as well as some exercise. She was a bit rusty but her muscle memory served her well. She finished a series of four bouts, the last of them against a young man who likely didn’t yet need
a razor, and went into the locker room to change back into her street clothes. The fresh-faced boy had used some decidedly adult language when she defeated him and refused to shake her hand. Disappointing, but it reflected worse on him than her. It was also disappointing that she might have to find a new club. If she couldn’t find worthy opponents, she might have to give up the sport altogether.

  Dorothy took a seat on the bench in the center of the changing area. She unfastened her jacket collar and then began working the row of buttons that ran down the left side of her chest.

  “Quite ironic,” she muttered. “Men will have finally succeeded in banishing me from the sport simply through inadequacy.”

  “Perhaps you should begin your own club,” a woman said from the far side of the room. Her voice echoed off the gleaming lockers and tile floor. “Train other women. Allow your students to surpass their master.”

  “An interesting idea,” Dorothy said. “One worth pursuing should I survive long enough to see retirement.” She stood up and removed her jacket, reaching up to unfasten her breastplate. “If you’re the delicate sort, I should warn you that nudity is imminent and you might wish to remain where you are.”

  The woman appeared at the end of the row of lockers. She was Indian, though her accent was more American than British. She wore a sleeveless silk blouse, its low-cut V made more modest by a thrice-layered string of pearls. Her black eyes were furthered darkened by subtle smudges of mascara. She was wearing a bowler but removed it as soon as she stepped into sight, revealing purple-black hair pinned back in a way that almost made it look like a masculine cut. The woman leaned against the white tile of the wall and crossed her arms over her chest. She offered a cheeky smile as proof she had taken Dorothy’s warning as an invitation, nodding at the locker.

  “You aren’t worried about the men stealing your clothes while you’re fighting?”

  “They’ve tried it a few times.” Dorothy returned the woman’s smile and removed her shirt. “But I was undeterred, and they decided it wasn’t worth the trouble. It turns out that young men regularly disposing of women’s clothing eventually face a lot of uncomfortable questions.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  Dorothy was down to her underthings now, which prompted her to change the subject. “When I’ve reached this state of undress with a woman, I generally at least know her name.”

  The woman raised an eyebrow. “Aha. So the rumors are true.”

  “There are rumors about me?” Dorothy feigned shock.

  “In certain circles. Don’t worry, you’re spoken of very highly.” The tip of her tongue darted against the corner of her mouth.

  Interesting, Dorothy thought. “You still haven’t told me who you are.”

  “My name is Riya Lennox. And of course there’s no need for you to introduce yourself. The infamous Lady Boone, seeker of myths and slayer of beasts.”

  “I’ve never slain a beast,” Dorothy said, “unless you count certain men with beastly behavior. I did once do battle with the Minotaur, but we were able to reason with one another and let each other walk away intact.”

  Lennox grinned and moved to sit on the bench behind Dorothy. “You know how it is with legends. Truth wrapped up in fiction.”

  “Legend?” Dorothy continued disrobing. She decided if Lennox wasn’t going to make an issue of it, neither would she. “I don’t know if I quite qualify for that.”

  “Give it time,” Lennox said. “I apologize for approaching you like this, but I wanted to speak with you directly. I suppose I could have gone to the Society or spoken to Miss Trafalgar, but I had the feeling the final say would come from you. So why not save us all some time?”

  “You have me intrigued, Miss Lennox. What can I do for you?”

  Lennox said, “It’s what I can do for you, Lady Boone. You simply have to keep doing what you’re doing.”

  “Undressing?”

  “Well yes, that. And thank you, by the way, it’s quite an enjoyable show.”

  Dorothy smirked with her back turned so Lennox couldn’t see it.

  “But I was referring to your adventuring. Joining up with the others in the Mnemosyne Society has granted you some freedom, but you’re all spending money faster than you can replace it. Within a few years, long-term excursions across the globe will be all but impossible. You’ll be scrounging for coins to pay cab fare to the British Museum.”

  “There have been discussions among the Society about how to boost commissions. The Keepings have spoken with several potential patrons who are interested in supporting our explorations.”

  Lennox said, “Indeed they have. And I’m here to end their quest.” She stood and moved so Dorothy could see her. “I wish to finance you.”

  “That’s very generous of you, but the idea of a single person funding--”

  “Twenty-five thousand pounds,” Lennox said. “Annually. Granted to the Mnemosyne Society to use as they see fit.”

  Dorothy couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. She suddenly wished she wasn’t in her underthings. She searched Lennox face for signs of mockery or deception but saw only hopeful excitement.

  “Now you see why I didn’t want to make this offer to just anyone. I know you trust your fellow Society members, and you share a home with Miss Trafalgar, but this amount of money could make anyone greedy. You used your grandmother’s fortune to fund your work. You were the one who pushed to create the Society in the first place. You put the work ahead of your own glory. That is why I knew I could trust you.”

  Dorothy said, “And what would you want in return?”

  Lennox shrugged. “Nothing outside of your comfort zone.”

  “A kiss?”

  Lennox’s smile widened and her voice dropped to a more seductive purr. “Ah, no, Lady Boone. Should your lips ever grace mine, I pray that it will be of your own free will.”

  Dorothy raised an eyebrow. She put her blouse on and began working the buttons. “So there is a caveat to taking your offer.”

  “Not only that, I can’t tell you what it is. Not yet. One day I will ask you to undertake a mission for me. It will be harrowing, and the sort of thing I couldn’t possibly ask for unless I was calling in an enormous favor. Hence the money. I can only swear that what I ask of you will not be outside your realm of comfort.”

  “Not exactly reassuring,” Dorothy said.

  “Unfortunately, it’s all I can offer.” She replaced the hat upon her head and took Dorothy’s hand, bowing to kiss the knuckles. “Take some time to consider it. Talk to your compatriots. I would invite you to investigate me, but you’ll find nothing. You only have my word that I am a friend, and a follower of your excellent work.”

  Dorothy said, “It is a great deal of money.”

  Lennox smiled, her expression unreadable. “I’ve never believed that a person’s passion should be hindered by something as ridiculous as a lack of funds. You and the Society are unlocking the mysteries of this world. In doing so, you may very well save the future.” She touched her finger to the brim of her hat and dipped her chin. “I look forward to your answer, Lady Boone.” She stepped around the row of lockers, once again out of sight.

  “How will I find you?” Dorothy called after her.

  “I’ll find you,” Lennox promised, her voice echoing as it had when she first arrived.

  Dorothy stood in the once-again empty locker room, replaying the conversation in her mind and tripping up when she reached the number. Twenty-five thousand pounds. Annually. The things the Society could do with coffers like that...

  She blew air out through her lips and continued dressing. She would definitely have to call an emergency meeting of the Society that evening.

  Chapter Two

  Cecil Dubourne was the first to respond after Dorothy finished recounting her conversation with Riya Lennox. He had been sitting backwards on a stool, elbows resting on the bar, but he leaned forward and clapped his hands together. “I say we take her up on it, buy everyone houses, and call it a
year.”

  The rest of the Mnemosyne Society was gathered in the main room of the Inkwell. The Keepings, Agnes and Leonard, were seated together on one side of a booth, with Cora Hyde across from them. Abraham Strode went behind the bar, initially to pour himself a drink and then to savor it while he listened to Dorothy’s tale. Trafalgar was also sitting at the bar, but she’d taken a stool as far from Cecil as possible without being obviously rude. Beatrice, the newest full member of the Society, was sitting on the stairs leading up to the second floor of the tavern.

  “The money would be for the Society,” Dorothy said. “It would go toward funding expeditions, hiring crews, shipping costs, the rent on this place.”

  “We could all buy houses and have enough left over for the boring stuff,” Abraham said. “It’s an almost ludicrous amount of money, especially from an utter stranger.”

  “It’s ludicrous once,” Leonard Keeping said. “But this ‘Miss Lennox’ made the offer to pay the same amount annually. There are entire countries which couldn’t make such an extravagant promise.”

  Agnes nodded in agreement with her husband. “I think it’s clear we’re dealing with a confidence woman. Not a very good one, at that. The key to a good lie is believability. She can’t possibly expect us to take her at her word.”

  Dorothy raised an eyebrow and looked at the floor.

  Trafalgar said, “You believe her?”

  “I do. I’m not entirely sure why. You’re absolutely correct, Mrs. Keeping. A con would know to keep their lie believable. And there was something about the confidence with which she made the offer. It was as if the amount was nothing to her. Less than nothing. I truly believe that if we agree to work with her, the money will be made available.”

  A line appeared between Agnes’ eyebrows, but she didn’t argue.

  “And there are no other conditions on the money?”

  The voice seemed to come from nowhere, and everyone in the room looked somewhere different. Dorothy looked at Beatrice, who was looking at a spot near the window. Ivy Sever, cursed with invisibility, had arrived at the meeting nude and unable to be tracked. But Dorothy trusted Beatrice’s senses and so directed her response to that spot.