Arcadia Snips and the Steamwork Consortium (22 page)

They turned to go; the courier intercepted them, holding out his hand. "Ahem," he said.

"Oh, right," Snips said. "Your tip. Here's one: Get a new job." She darted around the courier and ran down the road with Miss Primrose by her side, heading back toward the Rookery.

"Right then! Ha! I've never heard that one!" The courier shouted after Snips' retreating form. "Completely original, that!"

~*~

Nearly a decade ago, a mysterious explosion had raged through one of the poorest sections of the city, tearing through the cheaply built slums as if they had been little more than oil-soaked kindling. Rather than deal with the rapidly growing inferno, the king at the time had ordered the entire area to be quarantined to prevent the crisis from reaching the upper ward. Walls were erected, bridges were cut off, and leaflets apologizing for the inconvenience were dropped by hot-air balloons.

After a few years, most of the smoke and screaming had come to a stop. The current queen ordered the walls to be torn down and the bridges restored. A celebration was organized. There was to be cake.

But rather than being greeted with flowers and cheers, the soldiers discovered that many of the prior inhabitants were quite miffed about the whole affair, and still held a bit of a grudge. After a decade of fire and isolation, several of them had gone just a little bit mad.

Following an unfortunate incident involving several soldiers, a sausage grinder, and a new-and-improved cake recipe, the queen and her advisers determined that the people inside the district were not yet ready to rejoin society. The walls were reerected, the bridges re-cut, and new leaflets promising they'd make another go at it in a decade or so (also, this time, there would be proper cake, and not that cheap stuff they tried to foist on the survivors last time) were dropped.

And that was how the smoldering slag known as the Heap came to be.

Nowadays, the Heap was for people who found the occasional presence of a lost policeman in the Rookery to be overbearing. It was a place where the law was whatever you happened to be hollering while holding a very large stick—and it was a place where those skilled in violence could go far. The fact that the assassin lived on its tallest peak did not speak in Snips' and Miss Primrose's favor.

They slipped in through a crack in the wall guarded by men not paid enough to care. At once, the stench seized their noses in a clenched fist and twisted; Miss Primrose retched and even Snips grimaced.

The streets were mostly intact, although the buildings that flanked them were burnt out husks. Even stone buildings had crumbled under the heat of the fire. There was little left but broken glass and the charred skeletons of once-prosperous businesses.

Miss Primrose instinctively drew closer to Snips, who seemed to project a sense of fearlessness into the grim desolation.

"My God," she said, not daring to speak over a whisper. "People still live here?"

"Not all of them are people anymore," Snips said. "Stay close."

"To think," she said, looking off towards the distant pillars of smoke that rose from the heart of the Heap. "In some places, the fire still burns."

"More or less," Snips said. "Lots of stories about what happened that day. Some say it was a gas fire; most people blame Professor Daffodil," she added, sounding rather distant.

"I remember the story, but only vaguely," Miss Primrose confessed. "Something about an experiment gone horribly wrong —"

"A weapon," Snips said. "Meant to end all others."

"And this is the ultimate result."

"If you believe in that sort of thing," she added. "Watch your step. Sometimes, they set traps."

"Hm? Who? And to what end?"

"The survivors here," Snips said. "And for food."

"But what manner of animal would they hope to—oh. Oh, goodness," Miss Primrose said, growing pale with the realization.

"Like I said," Snips explained. "Not people. Not anymore."

Something scurried in the shadows of a nearby building; Miss Primrose gave a jump. "I have a pistol in my medical bag.

Perhaps I should fetch it?"

"Relax," Snips said, and then there was a distant howl.

"Um. Then again, maybe you should."

Miss Primrose began to reply, but then there was a cacophony of whoops and hollers. A creature sprang from the scorched shingles of a hollowed out tavern and landed in front of them.

The thing was human, or humanoid at least; its dark skin was bare save for a pair of tattered leather chaps, suspenders, and a mud-encrusted shirt. Around its waist and through its hair were tied strings of feather and bones; over the upper half of its face was the stitched together mask of a hound, its eyes flashing behind it like coins catching a fire's glow. On top of the scraggly mane of its hair was a top hat. It landed in a crouch, keeping hunched over as it lifted its head to look at them both. And then it grinned.

Its teeth resembled a platter of steak-knives.

"BOOGEDY BOOGEDY BOO!"

Miss Primrose cried out and leapt back, drawing her pistol from her bag. Snips caught her wrist and pulled it up just as the gun went off, firing a bullet high into the night air.

"Don't scare the tourists, Jack," Snips growled.

Arcadia Snips confronts Jack of the Heap.

Jack laughed; it was a deep and guttural sound, half-choked on razor-sharp teeth. He thrust his head towards the wide-eyed Miss Primrose, sniffing. "Why is my dinner wearing perfume?"

"That's soap, you mutt," Snips fired back. "And she's not your dinner. She's with me. We’re here to find a gentleman."

"Oh. Has the fair Lady Snips finally found the dashing knight who can tame her savage heart?" Jack cackled.

Snips glared at him. "As I remember, the last man to try and 'tame' me ended up with six inches of iron in his gut."

Jack smiled. "I still have the scar."

Snips leaned forward, dropping her lashes low and smiling back. "Would you like a matching set?"

"There's more of them!" Miss Primrose cried, pointing her gun frantically around them. Indeed, Snips and Miss Primrose were surrounded; a legion of men and women adorned in tattered clothes and war-paint were rising around them, emerging from behind rubble and rock.

Snips never batted an eye. Jack met her, stare for stare, tooth for tooth. "Why have you intruded on my lands, Lady Snips?

This is not your territory."

"A man has kidnapped someone I know," she said. "He's taken him to the highest peak in the Heap. I want him back."

Several of the people drew back. Jack gnashed his teeth.

"Him," he snarled, then threw his head back and howled. A few joined him, although none could match his savagery and volume.

"Friend of yours?" Snips asked.

"He came a month ago, claiming the peak for himself. He killed any who came near," Jack growled.

"Sounds charming."

"As always, you have chosen difficult prey, Lady Snips,"

Jack said. "He will give you trouble."

Miss Primrose had started to calm down, lowering her gun to her side. She directed her attention to Snips. "Who is this man?"

Before Snips could answer, Jack replied. "City-dweller,"

Jack said, addressing Miss Primrose. "What is your name?"

Miss Primrose narrowed her eyes, holding the pistol at her side. "Miss Maria Primrose," she said.

"Lady Primrose," Jack said, bowing with mocking reverence. "Pray tell, such a dashing, handsome damsel! Might you consider allowing me to court such a ravishing beauty?"

Miss Primrose hmphed. “I have absolutely no interest in matrimony,” she said. “Besides, I am fairly certain that you have fleas.”

"Ease off on her, mutt," Snips replied. "As for our problem, I just need a half-decent air balloon. Doesn't need to fly far, just straight. Know where a girl could pick one up this time of night?"

Jack laughed. "The Committee has one."

"The Committee," Snips said, sighing. "It'd have to be them, wouldn't it?"

"I will help you secure your chariot, Lady Snips, but beyond that you must fend for yourself."

"What's your price?"

"Remove the man from my lands," Jack said.

"Permanently."

"Done."

Jack threw his head back yet again, laughing and whooping in a display of wolfish jubilation. His followers did much the same, until the street was filled with a furious clamor; when he looked back at Snips, his eyes were gleaming. "A pleasure to hunt with you again, Lady Snips."

"Let's just get this over with," she said.

~*~

~*~

The sound of thunder was nearly enough to blot out the frantic knocking at Nigel's door; bleary-eyed, the doctor threw it open only to find himself confronted by a soaked Jeremiah.

"It's William," he gasped, and then he seized Nigel by the sleeve and drew him out and into the cold rain.

They took the waiting cab to Jeremiah's home, where Abigail sat besides the bedridden boy. William's skin was as pale as the underbelly of a fish, a cold sweat leaving him drenched.

Though otherwise young and healthy, the eleven year old had always had a particularly weak constitution; a quick inspection confirmed Nigel's suspicions. The boy's heart was failing.

Nigel straightened, turning to the husband and wife.

"Abigail. Go down the street to Doctor Morganton's house. Tell him it is an emergency, and that Nigel Arcanum requires his surgical instruments immediately."

Abigail nodded. Though flushed with color and worry, the woman still kept her head about her; she darted off at once to carry out Nigel's orders. He turned to Jeremiah, staring at his old friend evenly.

"Nigel," Jeremiah began, swallowing. "Can he be—"

"You were right to come to me," Nigel told him. "Most doctors in this city are little more than butchers. I think that, with your help, I may be able to save him."

"My help?" Jeremiah asked. "But I'm no biologist—"

"You've heard of my experiments in flesh grafting, have you not?"

"Oh, God," Jeremiah said, shuddering. "You don't propose to—"

"No. I've yet to master the technique; the animals I've experimented on invariably reject the organs and die. Replacing his heart with another heart is not feasible," Nigel said, turning back to the boy. "However, I have something else in mind."

"How can I help?"

"Help me take the boy down to your basement," Nigel said.

"We will need the instruments of your mother's trade, as well as my own."

~*~

They worked deep into the night and long into the morning; the work was not complete until the afternoon of the next day.

When it was finished, William's color returned. The boy remained asleep, but it was clear from the warmth of his skin and the regularity of his breath that he was on the road to recovery.

But when Abigail finally beheld the fruits of their labor, it was not a sigh of relief that escaped her lips; rather, it was a scream of horror.

"What have you done!?" she cried, beating at Jeremiah with her fists. "What have you done to your son?!"

"There was no other way to save him," Nigel said. "Abigail, please—"

"You've butchered him! My God, you've—"

Jeremiah was as white as a ghost, his eyes dark from lack of sleep. He seized Abigail by the shoulders, holding her still. "Had there been another way to save him, I would have taken it. Were it possible, I would have happily torn out my own heart and given it to him."

Abigail's fury finally began to abate, clutching at Jeremiah's clothes with her fists. Her snarls melted into sobs, her head pressed to his shoulder as he held her close.

William's chest was bare; over his heart was now a circular plate of bolted iron fused to his flesh. Somewhere beneath it, a mechanical heart regularly ticked—pumping blood with the ceaseless precision of a clock.

~*~

William awoke slowly, drawn from the pleasant oblivion of sleep by the sound of steady clicking. He pulled his lids back, gasping at the sharpness of the light; when his eyes had last adjusted, he began to inspect his surroundings.

The room was built of straight timber, its grain exposed; no clever woodwork or design obscured the planks that enclosed it. A snuffed gas lamp hung from the ceiling, with a plain table beneath it; swirls of languid smoke gathered into choking clouds around it, brushing at the ceiling and walls. The clicking came from a nefarious looking gentleman with a false bronze nose and a shaved head patiently cleaning his pistol. The smoke came from his ebony pipe, cradled between his lips and freshly lit.

Understanding struck William with the force of a lightning bolt. Despite his better judgment, he cried out; his coat had been shorn open, revealing the iron bolted plug that sat over where his heart should have been. He had been bound to a chair, his arms tied behind its frame.

Without so much as looking up, the assassin addressed him.

"As a rule, I don't engage in torture. Not that I object to it," he quickly added. "I've simply found that it rarely accomplishes anything. People tell you what you want to hear, not what they actually know."