A Study in Ashes (18 page)

London, September 25, 1889
THE GOLD KING’S WORKSHOP
1:15 p.m. Wednesday

HEAT WAS A PALPABLE FORCE INSIDE THE BUILDING, SO
thick it might have been sliced and shipped for shillings a pound. Sweat trickled between Tobias’s shoulder blades, adding an extra layer of irritation to his foul mood. He’d been hard at work investigating the brass bug, but this was the third time he’d been called away. Nothing was working right.

He was in his shirtsleeves, his coat and vest tossed over a reasonably clean crate. All around him, the vast warehouse pulsed with the noise of engines, a rusty light shimmering from the coal-powered furnaces. Workers swarmed like jungle insects, hands and minds busy with one project or another, turning plans into prototypes. Tobias had designed most of the machines there, but every unit built was for the greater glory of Keating Industries. Here, the Gold King ruled all.

Sadly, Tobias’s latest invention wasn’t about to be ruled by anyone. At eight feet in height, it stared down at him with that insouciance peculiar to malfunctioning machines.
Go on, make me work
, it seemed to say.
I have all the time in the world to watch you try
.

Tobias wasn’t impressed.
Bloody fart bucket
. By now there had to be enough steam inside to send it rocketing to Mars. Why wouldn’t it run?

“We checked the pressure, guv,” said the man standing beside him, whose name was McColl. “And there’s not a leak anywhere. I looked myself, every inch.”

Tobias nodded, hearing but not bothering to waste mental capacity on speech. He was rechecking his math and reimagining his diagrams, comparing them to the monstrosity a dozen feet away. Keating had asked for weaponized ground transport, and this was it—a steam-driven engine surrounded in armor plating. Or rather, it was a steel and brass dome on wheels, somewhat taller than it was wide, with enormous gunports on the roof. It had an extra knob on top, giving it the appearance of a huge covered dish. However, the knob was the greatest feature of the thing, because it allowed the contraption to fly. Then again, it could also explode the entire warehouse.

“Have you checked the aether distillers?” he asked McColl.

The man mopped his shining brow with a sleeve. “I had a look at ’em, guv, but I’m no expert.”

Tobias’s neck went rigid, and his temple throbbed—but he kept his tone civil. Decent workmen were in high demand all over London, and McColl was better than most. “If they’re not calibrated, they can drain power from the main engines. That could explain why nothing else will work.”

“All I know is that they were green and bubbly.”

Despite himself, Tobias’s tone went sharp. Bubbles meant the distiller was growing volatile. “How bubbly?”

“Like a good stout sir, with a bit of froth on top.”

Tobias’s heart lurched. There was no time even to curse. “Gloves!”

McColl stripped his own off, handing them over. Tobias lunged toward the machine, pulling them on as he went. “Turn off the engines!” he roared. “Power it down!”

He vaulted from the ground to the lip above the wheels, then clambered up the dome, using the overlapping plates as hand- and footholds. When he got to the smaller half-sphere on top of the dome, he balanced precariously, digging the edges of his fine leather boots against the housing, and attacked the wing nuts holding the faceplate. The gloves were
clumsy, so he grabbed the fingers in his teeth, tasting the heavy oil-soaked leather as he pulled off the right one so he could work more quickly. But as he feared, the metal was scorching hot. The thing was overheating.
Faster, faster!

The principle of the distillation device was simple: it took ordinary air, separated out the aether, and then concentrated it into a liquid form that could be stored. When needed, the aether could be converted back to gas to fill a balloon, providing greater—and much safer—lifting power than hydrogen. Tobias’s domed invention was equipped with storage canisters and a tightly folded balloon. In the event a rapid escape was needed, the balloon would inflate and an interior cage would separate from the rest of the machine, floating the operator and key equipment to safety. Because the distiller itself was on board, there was no danger of running out of fuel.

But ironically, that safety feature was about to combust them all. He burned his fingers for a few twists and then snatched up the glove again, using it like a pad between his skin and the nuts. When he finally freed the cover, he tossed it aside. The thing clanged and skidded across the floor. Tobias could hear McColl working below, hopefully shutting down the boiler.

Tobias caught his breath. Behind the brass cover of the distiller was a glass plate, and behind that a double helix of clear tubing. Inside was the bright lime-green fluid that was distilled aether, snaking in a continuous journey that spiraled up and back through the tube. But rather than the clear jewel-like serpent Tobias should have seen, it churned with agitation. Tobias had a moment of mild surprise—not that it was about to explode, which was obvious, but that it was such a stellar example of improper installation that he wished he could show it to the apprentice mechanics.

The housing began to make a loud ticking sound, the temperature inside obviously out of hand. Visions of flames and flying roof tiles crowded his brain. Maybe a crater where the street used to be. Surely it wouldn’t be that bad, but he was on top of the thing and didn’t fancy ending up as bits of gooey muck on the walls. Tobias jammed his fingers into the
glove again and dug down inside the workings, feeling for the hose that was supposed to take in fresh air and release excess heat outside the glass housing. Even if McColl shut down the steam engine, it would take too long for everything to cool to a safe level.

Tobias felt his feet slipping and gripped the dome hard with his left hand. He could feel the hose he wanted, twisted uselessly under some pipes instead of venting like it was supposed to. All he had to do was hitch himself up and lean a little farther in. He did, dangling a moment, but he got hold of the tube. It was a special material, a combination of rubber hardened to withstand extreme temperatures and a finely knitted steel, so flexible it crumpled like cloth. It burned him right through his glove, and experience had taught him to beware the scalding steam trapped inside.

Then McColl slammed a gear, jolting everything. Tobias had a good grip with his hands, but his feet flew free. That jerked the hose, and all the pressure that should have been loosed for the last hour shot out—and so did he. Tobias sailed backward, shrieking as steam knifed out just inches from his skin.

He landed hard, but years of riding lessons had taught him to fall. He rolled to a stop, gagging with pain. For a moment, the world rotated, reminding him of an era when he’d spent most days drunk, and for an instant he wanted desperately to go back there.

The sound of feet skidding to a halt jerked him back to the present. McColl was leaning over him. “Guv? You all right, guv?”

An eerie silence hung over the place. Every other pair of hands had stopped moving, all attention on him. Tobias sucked air between his teeth with a hiss. It felt like his body wasn’t sure where to begin hurting, but he couldn’t exactly start moaning. He wasn’t just the spoiled son of an aristocrat, he was the Gold King’s head maker, and there was an example to be set.

He cleared his throat. “What’s the green light at the top doing?”

“It’s gone out, or just about.”

“Good.”

“What’s it mean?”

Tobias sat up, and that sent his gut rolling like a wind-tossed airship. “We don’t die today.”

McColl looked happy about that, then twisted around when the door to the offices slammed. Keating was marching toward them, the silence growing so profound as the workers quieted their tools that Tobias could hear the soles of his employer’s shoes scuff the floor.

“What happened to you?” Keating demanded.

Tobias looked down at his arm, which seemed to be hurting worse than the rest of him. There was a strip of flesh between the gauntlet of the glove and his shirtsleeve, and it was lobster red from the blast of steam. “Damnation.”

“Get up,” Keating ordered. “I take it the transport is not working yet?”

McColl had already faded into the sea of workbenches and mechanical monsters. Tobias found his feet, though quickly discovered moving his arm hurt like blazes. “The new unit needs adjustment.”

Keating grunted. “So do you. Better get some ice on that. Let’s go someplace where we can talk.”

They went through the door to Tobias’s work space, which was a separate room with an adjacent office attached. Long tables covered with disassembled parts lined the walls of the main room, evidence of his interrupted work.

They went into his office. It was utilitarian, with plain white walls, sturdy oak furnishings, and a small window that looked onto a featureless back alley. Tobias didn’t care about the lack of a view. Keating had workplaces all over the city, but Tobias preferred the simple, workmanlike utility of this one.

They sat down at the small, square table and waited while the young doctor who worked on site iced and bandaged Tobias’s arm. It hurt somewhere beyond reason, and Tobias gratefully accepted the glass of whisky Keating poured for him. Now that the crisis was over, he felt an odd agitation, as if he wanted a fight. He’d got off lightly, but was still furious
at having to take such a risk. And of course it was his right arm, which would hamper him for days.

“How long do you think it will take to get the transport working?” Keating asked as the doctor left.

“It will take a day or two of tinkering and we can test it again.”

“We need to get it into production as soon as possible.” Keating paced the room, circling it like one of those exotic fighting fishes that constantly prowled the confines of its tank.

Tobias tried to watch him but then gave up, since every blink seemed to jostle his throbbing burn. Wearily, he wondered how many of the transports would roll out of Keating’s factories. Tobias had designed half the weapons, but Keating hid the finished product from everyone but a handful of warehouse workers. No one knew just how strong the Gold army might be, and Keating liked it that way. “Is there a time constraint that I should be aware of?” Tobias asked.

“Yes,” Keating said conversationally. “There’s going to be a war. Surely you’ve noticed?”

“You sound like my father.”

Keating’s look was dryly amused. “Lord Bancroft and I see eye to eye on very little, but I think we agree on this point. The natives are restless. Why do you think Reading was on edge at your father’s party?”

Because he was working up his nerve to ask me to play traitor
. But mentioning that now would only open the door to a conversation Tobias didn’t have the energy for that day. Not with his arm throbbing and the Gold King already spoiling for a fight. “He was drunk.”

“He’s up to something. Most of the time he knows far better than to draw attention to himself. Or to challenge me—especially when we have agreed to an alliance.”

But the bargain Keating offered was enough to make anyone wary. The Gold King wanted Scarlet’s fleet of dirigibles, but he had little patience for the man himself—and Keating tended to dispose of things he couldn’t use. “What are you going to do about him?”

“I’ll bring him around,” Keating said shortly. “Can you tell me anything new about the abomination?”

That was Keating’s way of referring to the bug. Undoubtedly, there was something about saying “the sanctity of my territory was destroyed by a giant brass mosquito” that irked the Gold King past endurance.

“You don’t think Reading had anything to do with it?” Tobias asked.

Keating’s look was impatient. “Of course I’ve thought it. Everyone has after that disreputable performance at your father’s party. It’s the one reason I think it’s unlikely. He’s not subtle enough to do something that obvious.”

Spoken like a steam baron
. “Who else?”

“If I’ve learned anything from Holmes, it’s the value of evidence. What have you found since last night? Anything besides that steering system? You’ve had a week.”

Tobias was tempted to say something unwise. A week wasn’t a long time when it came to the amount of work involved in disassembling a machine of that size and complexity. Not when every bolt had to be examined for clues. But Tobias rose, a little dizzy from the pain, and motioned for Keating to lead the way toward the workroom. “Whoever manufactured this machine used parts from other ships. Finding out where it was made will be a challenge.”

Keating moved to center of the room and gave the ring of worktables an imperious glare. “You told me that already, and it’s not particularly helpful information.”

Tobias crossed to the nearest heap of parts, running one hand over the smooth brass. “I have men researching where the donor ships might have been located. I’m hoping we’ll find a wrecking yard in one city with the right combination of old ships.” Of course, given that air travel was relatively new, he wasn’t even sure such a selection of salvage existed. He’d asked the Merchant Brotherhood of the Air for help, but so far they’d been coy.

Keating swore. “There is nothing? Nothing at all you can provide?”

“I’ve mentioned the steering system.” He pointed to another
table, where a steel cube bristled with copper wires. “The logic sorter is interesting. It is different enough that I’m concentrating my efforts there.”

“Good. Spend more time on it.”

“And what about the transport?” Tobias waved his good hand in the direction of the main workshop.

“Keep on it. We need it faster.” The Gold King leaned against one of the tables. “Understand this. The air battle over London stirred public resentment. The
Red Jack
was a popular icon, the captain something of a romantic hero. The man in the street has a soft spot for rogues.”

Nick
. Tobias hadn’t known the man well, but he had saved Imogen. The thought left a guilty, bitter feeling that had Tobias reaching for his whisky glass. If Nick had been a popular hero, he’d paid for that status with his life.