Demon Marked (49 page)

“He was on my ship. He wasn't my crew, but he was my responsibility,” she said, marveling at the other woman's composure. How was it that Yasmeen didn't feel as steady as his sister looked? She slipped her fingers into her pocket, produced her cigarillo case and lighter. “Do you mind if I . . . ?”

“Yes,” Zenobia said bluntly. “It reeks.”

“If you smoke one, too, you won't notice it as much.” Yasmeen smiled when the other woman only fixed a baleful look on the proffered cigarillo. She slid it back into the silver case. “I have his belongings and his purse—minus the five livre he owed to me for his passage.”

Five livre was a large sum of money, but Zenobia didn't blink. “I'll take them. And the da Vinci sketch?”

“You'd be a fool to keep it in your possession.”

“As aptly demonstrated today.”

Though dryly stated, Yasmeen could see that the other woman knew it was the truth. “Mills will only be the first.”

“Yes.” Zenobia took another sip before coming to a decision. “Sell it, then.”

Exultation burst through Yasmeen's veins. She contained it, and merely nodded. “I will.”

A tiny smile flirted with the woman's mouth. “I understand that on dangerous flights, the airship captain receives twenty-five percent of the salvage.”

Yasmeen met Zenobia's steady gaze. “For this job, I'll take fifty percent.”

Her tone said there'd be no negotiation. Her face must have conveyed the same. Zenobia studied her, as if weighing the chances of coming to a different agreement.

Finally, she took another sip and said, “I suppose fifty percent of an absurd fortune is still a ridiculous amount of money.”

Clever woman.
This
was the Zenobia that Yasmeen had expected to find. She wasn't disappointed. “I'll see that you receive your half when the sale is finalized.”

“Thank you.” She hesitated, and some of the hardness of negotiation dropped from her expression, revealing a hint of vulnerability. “I heard a little bit of what you said about the zombies, captain. Is it true that you deliberately threw him into a canal?”

So three weeks had given her time to adjust to the idea? Obviously not completely. Yasmeen shook her head. “It was the middle of the night. I couldn't know where he landed.”

Lies. Her eyes saw well enough in the dark. She'd watched him splash into the canal. She'd known that with luck and brains, he'd survive—and her crew wouldn't think she'd gone soft or weak.

But even for Archimedes Fox, his chances of survival were slim. She wouldn't give this woman any more false hope than she offered herself.

“I see.” Zenobia's fingers tightened on her cup. “If, on your travels, you see him with the others . . .”

“I'll shoot him,” Yasmeen promised.

“Thank you.” The vulnerability left her face, replaced by sudden amusement. “Speaking of your travels, captain . . . you've tossed the source of my stories overboard.”

Yasmeen looked pointedly at the ink staining her fingers. “You're writing.”

“Only letters.”

“You won't need the income when I've sold the sketch.”

“You misunderstand me.” Zenobia set her cup on the table and leaned forward. “I don't need the income now. I write because I enjoy it. Will you leave your airship when you've received your portion of the money?”

“No.” When she left her lady for the last time, it would only be because her dead body had been dragged away.

“It is the same with me for writing. I won't stop, not voluntarily. But I do need inspiration for the stories. With the basis for Archimedes gone, I'll have to create another character. Perhaps a woman this time.” She sat back, her gaze narrowed on Yasmeen's face. “What about . . .
The Adventures of Lady Lynx
?”

Yasmeen laughed. Zenobia didn't.

“You're not joking?”

The other woman shook her head. “You've killed my research source and taken an extra twenty-five percent from his spoils. You live a life of adventure.”

“Yes, but—”

“I'll write them. You receive twenty-five percent of royalties.”

The sudden need for a cigarillo almost overwhelmed her. A drink, a hit of opium. Anything to calm her jumping nerves. Was she going to agree to this?

Yes. Of course she was. Even without royalties, she would have.

But still, no need to be stupid about it.

“Fifty percent of royalties,” Yasmeen countered.

“Twenty-five. You send me reports of where you go, who you see, what you eat. I need to know how long it takes you to fly to each location. I want your impressions of your crew, your passengers, and everyone you meet.”

Impossible. “I won't share everything.”

“I won't name them. I only seek authenticity, not a reproduction of the truth.”

“I
won't
share everything,” Yasmeen repeated.

For a moment, Zenobia looked as if she'd try to negotiate that, too. Then she shrugged. “Of course you can't. But let us begin with your background. Thirteen years ago, you joined my father's crew. After you killed him—well done, by the way—you sold
Lady Corsair
's services as a mercenary in the French-Liberé war, where you worked both sides, depending upon who paid the most. You earned the reputation of being willing to do anything for money. But what happened before that? Where were you before my father's ship?”

In a very pretty cage. But did she want to share that? Yasmeen shook her head.

“As far as I'm concerned, my life started when I boarded
Lady Corsair
. Make up what you like about what came before.”

“All right. A mysterious past will only make Lady Lynx more fascinating,” she mused. “I could deliver the background in bits, like crumbs.”

“Whatever you like.” Yasmeen stood. “The other reports, I'll send to you regularly.”

Zenobia's expression sharpened as she rose. “Where are you heading after you leave Fladstrand? Do you have a job now?”

“No. We'll spend the day traveling to Port Fallow. Mills is only here because another man talked about the sketch. I need to have a conversation with him.”

Then she'd fly to England, and ask the Iron Duke to hold the sketch safe at his London fortress until she found a buyer. She couldn't risk carrying it with her any longer.
Lady Corsair
had become a moving target.

“And will you also have a conversation with Mills?”

A frown had furrowed the other woman's brow. Did she think Yasmeen would leave without taking care of Mills, or did some other matter concern her?

“Yes,” Yasmeen said. “Why?”

“Perhaps I should contact the town's magistrate, instead.”

And let word spread that Yasmeen had run to the authorities after Miracle Mills had tried to cheat her, rather than taking care of him on her own? Not a chance.

“You can,” she told Zenobia. “But I won't wait for you to arrive at the inn with him.”

Indecision warred on the woman's face.

“Come with me,” Yasmeen offered. “Call it research. I think you'll find that the magistrate will arrive sooner or later.”

“To arrest you?”

That startled a laugh from her. “For what?”

“For whatever you do to Mills.”

Ah. Zenobia assumed that Yasmeen would burst into the inn, guns firing. She wrote stories where characters did exactly that—but like most people, she balked when faced with the reality of that scenario.

Yasmeen tended to avoid such scenes herself. “I only intend to talk with him, and make certain that he knows—that
everyone
knows—you don't have the sketch, and that you'll never have access to it.”

The woman visibly relaxed. “I see. Thank you.”

“It's not personal. I simply want my twenty-five percent, and more stories.” When Zenobia smiled in response, she gestured to the door. “Shall we go?”

She waited outside while the other woman retrieved her coat. The frigid air shivered through her. Lighting a cigarillo, she let the smoke warm her lungs and ease the tiny shakes.

A few neighbors had ventured outside, all of them watching Yasmeen without looking directly at her, or tilting their heads back to gape at
Lady Corsair
. Zenobia waved to them and called a good morning when she finally emerged, and Yasmeen couldn't decide whether surprise or relief added such volume to the
Good morning!
s they called to her in return. Feeling the cold down to her toes, she started for the rope ladder.

“Captain Corsair?” When Yasmeen turned, Zenobia avoided her gaze. She seemed to find the act of pulling on her gloves either fascinating, or extraordinarily difficult. “I thought we might walk rather than fly.”

“I thought you might want to have a look at my lady. For authenticity.” And because the steam engine kept the cabins heated and the deck beneath her feet warm.

“I've seen her.” She shot a glance upward. “When she was my father's.”

Damn it. Yasmeen wouldn't ask what had happened. She'd seen enough of Emmerich Gunther-Baptiste's cruelties to guess.

“We walk, then.”

Zenobia's boot soles clipped across the cobblestones as she matched Yasmeen's long stride. So loud. Yasmeen's soft leather wasn't as warm, but at least it was quiet—and didn't announce her approach from hundreds of yards away.

“Perhaps I shouldn't have stopped you from boarding
Lady Corsair
.” Zenobia's cheeks had already flushed with cold. “You only intend to talk, but who knows what Mills intends. You should have armed yourself first.”

Funny. Yasmeen pulled open her coat, exposing the knives sheathed at her thighs. “I'm always armed.”

“You're only taking daggers?”

No need to mention the pistols in her coat pockets. Yasmeen didn't intend to use them. “The only weapon I bring to a conversation is a knife. A gun means that the talking is over.”

“Oh, I must make Lady Lynx say that.” Without a break in her stride, she tore off her right glove with her teeth before digging out a paper and pencil from her pocket. She scribbled the line as she walked.

Inspiration was to be taken so directly? Yasmeen slowed to accommodate the other woman's preoccupation, wondering if she'd often done the same when walking with Archimedes . . . who was charming and fun, much like the character she'd written. Yasmeen had assumed it also reflected the sister, but she seemed far more sober and practical than her brother had been.

“How much of Archimedes came from him, and how much was you?”

Zenobia tucked her notes away. “All Wolfram. It was easy, though, because I know him well. Lady Lynx will likely have more of me in her.”

Because she didn't know Yasmeen as well. Fair enough.

“If there is anything that you think she
shouldn't
be, Captain Corsair, I would appreciate your telling me now. I can't promise that you'll like what I write, but I prefer not to be . . . inaccurate.”

Or to offend her, Yasmeen guessed. She appreciated that. “Don't let her be an idiot, always threatening someone with a gun. Only let her draw it if she intends to use it.”

Zenobia's color deepened. “Unlike Archimedes Fox?”

In her stories. “Yes. He did it in every one, and I was always surprised that someone didn't shoot him while he was waving his gun around. You
have
to assume that someone will try to kill you while you're deciding whether or not to shoot them. And so by the time the gun comes out, that decision should have been made.”

“I see.” Her notes were in her hand again, but Zenobia didn't add to them. “Is that what Wolfram did—wave his gun around?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes closed. “Idiot.”

So Yasmeen had often said, but his sister should know the rest of it. “Stupid, yes. But also exhausted. He returned three weeks late, and Venice wouldn't have given him time to sleep or eat.” Too many zombies, too few hiding places. “When he climbed up to the ship, he ordered my crew to set a heading for the Ivory Market. I refused and told him to sleep it off before making demands. That's when he drew his gun and—”

“You waited in Venice
three weeks
for him?”

Blissed on opium, and wondering why the hell she was still floating over a rotten city. But she'd known. She'd read through each damn story of his, each impossible escape, and she'd known he'd make it out of Venice, too. So she'd waited. And when he'd finally returned to her ship, she'd had to toss him back—believing he might still make it.

But after he'd tried to take her ship, she wouldn't wait for him again.

“I waited,” she finally answered. “He still owed me half of his fee.”

Zenobia studied her face before slowly nodding. “I see.”

Yasmeen didn't know what the woman thought she saw—and didn't much care, either. Three weeks on an airship was nothing. Three weeks in Venice was a nightmare.

“He couldn't have known I'd wait, but he was late anyway. The sketch wouldn't be worth anything to him if he died there.”

Zenobia's chin tilted up at an unmistakable angle, a combination of defiance and pride—as if she felt the need to defend her brother. “Perhaps he was late for the same reason you stayed: money.”

Yes, Yasmeen believed that. If she had followed Archimedes's orders and flown directly to the Ivory Market, he could have quickly sold the sketch. Which meant that he'd risked his life those three weeks because if he'd left Venice without the sketch—or access to the money—he'd have been dead anyway.