Heart of Steel (21 page)

“Shall we attempt it, then? I know it is not the sort of treasure we intended to find.”

Not a clockwork army, but still lucrative. He looked to Yasmeen, who was shaking her head.

“The Dame was barely alive when they escaped. She might have died during their journey, but he loves her. He wouldn't leave her body down there to rot. And leaving the hatch open . . . if he's alive, he wouldn't have. If he died inside, he wouldn't have.”

“He might have left it open while he was gathering provisions.” Archimedes was familiar with that tactic. “If he's chased, he doesn't have to take time to open it again.”

“But that also means that he hasn't returned—so he'd be a zombie or lying dead out there somewhere.” She indicated the dense forest with a sweep of her hand. “But there's also the way he left the harvester out in the open like this. It's not like him. After the navy stole the steelcoat suits from him, he guards his inventions.”

Hassan nodded thoughtfully. “I agree, it sounds unlikely that either is inside. But would you be willing to take a closer look to be certain?”

Fifty or a hundred livre was a lot to pass up. “I'll go down,” Archimedes said.

“Then I will, too.” Yasmeen met his eyes. “At least if Dame Sawtooth's body is there, she's easy to identify.”

Archimedes saw the crew moving toward the cargo lift and stopped them. “That makes too much noise. We'll take the rope ladder.”

They unrolled it quickly. He glanced at Yasmeen, who was slipping off her long coat and heavy hat.

“I'll go down first,” she said.

“But—”

“I'm faster. If any zombies do come, I can kill them before you do.” She glanced at the marines. “Tell them to hold off shooting.”

Almost faster than he could track, she went over the side. Not bothering with the rungs, she slid quickly down the ropes. Near the bottom, she flipped her legs out, spun through the air like an acrobat, and landed silently in a crouch. God, what an incredible woman. His own descent was embarrassingly slow by comparison.

He reached the ground. Snow crunched softly under his feet. The light was fading quickly, the edges of the clearing lost in shadows.

“Do you see anything?”

“No.” Her voice was as quiet as his. “Let's go.”

She ran toward the machine. God, she was quick and light on her feet. She rounded the machine and paused. The oval door-sized hatch on this side was also open.

Unease slipped through him. Leaving the hatch open on top made sense—zombies didn't climb. But they could walk right through the main hatch. “Would he do
this
?”

“No.” She studied the dark interior. “But I would wager anything that he's set it to blow.”

“When's the last time it snowed?” He judged the snow around them. “Two, three days ago? But there's barely any on the machine, and no tracks. The wind might have cleaned it off, but either way, it hasn't been sitting long.”

“He's probably hiding around here somewhere and this is his warning system.” She met his eyes. “What do you think?”

“I trust my gut. If we go in there, we're dead.”

Yasmeen agreed. They ran back to the ladder, climbed up.

Hassan met them at the top. “You didn't go inside?”

“She's rigged to blow,” Archimedes said.

One of the marines stepped forward. The leader of the group, Archimedes guessed. His boots polished to a high shine, each buckle of his jacket in a straight line, his brown beard precisely trimmed, he looked the sort that lived by details and never let imperfections pass by without correcting them—or destroying them.

“What sort of explosive? We're trained to defuse several types of devices.”

“Including Jasper Evans's devices?” He looked to Hassan. “You know me well. If there's a chance to survive, there's nothing I won't try. I don't believe there's much of a chance here.”

After a brief moment, Hassan nodded. “All right, then. We will let it be.”

“But you didn't
see
the device, Mr. Fox?” This from Captain Guillouet. “You only
think
that it's there.”

“I didn't see it,” Yasmeen said. “But I know Evans well enough to say he'd rather destroy the machine than let someone else have it.”

Archimedes gritted his teeth when the captain didn't acknowledge her answer with so much as a glance. Christ. She had more experience and knowledge than half the men on that deck put together.

Guillouet continued, “Mr. Hassan, if you've passed on this opportunity to collect the reward, I hope you'll forgive the small delay as I allow my crew to try?”

“Yes, but I counsel against it.”

“And pass up a possible fifty livre reward?” Guillouet smiled. “If I split it equally between my men, that's two each. That's more than they make in a year. I believe they'll take that risk.”

Several of the aviators nodded, eyes widening at the mention of such a sum. Yasmeen's mouth tightened.

Guillouet turned to the marine. “Mr. Bigor, please lead your men down. Be quick, before you lose the light.”

“Yes, sir.” Bigor jerked his head at his men, and they moved in step to the rope ladder.

Anger was one of the few emotions that Archimedes never deliberately stoked, and he was slow to rise to a temper. But it could happen, now and again.

“Mr. Bigor, a moment!” he called out. When the man paused at the side of the ship, Archimedes joined him and said, “Have you encountered many zombies before?”

The man gave a stiff nod, eyes hard. “A few.”

Only a few? Archimedes wasn't surprised. The four men were skilled, no doubt, though he'd have wagered they hadn't been long on this side of the Atlantic.

A moan sounded from below, barely audible above the creak of the ship and the flap of canvas. But of course there was—Archimedes had just yelled the man's name, hadn't he? And no one had called him an idiot.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Yasmeen lean over the side and scan the tree line. Apparently she'd been listening for the moan, too.

“Then you probably know to destroy the brain, or take off the head,” Archimedes said. “But there's more to know.”

He drew his revolver. The other man tensed, but Archimedes was already turning away from him, looking toward the harvester. He tipped the bullets out of the chamber. Picking up one, he flung it at the machine. The bullet struck the top with a faint
ping
!

“They're fast,” he said as one burst from the shadows and raced across the clearing, hissing. With matted hair and sunken features, the zombie was too emaciated and filthy to determine gender—or perhaps all indications had been eaten or rotted off.

Many of the aviators recoiled in instinctive repulsion. Bigor didn't flinch. He raised his hand, stopping his comrade when the other marine aimed his rifle.

“They'll investigate any noise.” Archimedes threw another bullet.
Ping!
The zombie was growling now, a rasping, ravenous sound. “And if they encounter a structure, they'll search for a way in.”

The zombie disappeared around the side. Archimedes waited.

The explosion rocked the harvester back, flipping the shredder's tail up like a scorpion readying to strike. Metal shrieked. Smoke boiled from the top hatch.

“And that's all there is to know.” Archimedes clapped the man on the back. “You can go down and look for the Dame and Evans now, Mr. Bigor, but you'd best hurry. I can already hear more of them coming.”

 

 

Yasmeen wouldn't have handled that half as well. Too used
to giving orders, she'd have insisted that Guillouet retract the order he'd given the marines, and probably would have ended up shooting someone—or at least throwing punches. She'd never have considered throwing bullets.

She followed Archimedes down the ladder from the main deck, and was halfway to their cabin before she realized that he was furious. He stalked into the small room, throwing his hat and coat over his bunk. Two paces brought him to the washstand. He whipped around, almost paced into her.

Taking a quick step back, she flattened her hand against his solid chest. His heart pounded. His jaw had set like stone, his emerald eyes were bright. Her breath seemed to slip away. Oh, he was magnificent when roused. She could have looked at him for hours, but she settled for the time it took to breathe again.

“You're an impressive specimen of a man, Mr. Fox,” she finally said.

His gaze narrowed, fell to her lips. The pace of his heart quickened. Then he all but wrecked her when he stroked the back of his fingers down her cheek.

Pleasure streaked through her, the urge to lift into his touch and purr. She contained her shudder, remained still as he covered her hand with his, holding it to his chest. His eyes closed, and she was never more grateful for a moment alone.

She pressed the tips of her fingers to her cheek, steadied herself. He didn't even know what he'd done to her—and how rarely she felt a sweet touch that asked for absolutely nothing. Swallowing, she said, “You averted that disaster up there perfectly. Of course, Guillouet will hate you now, too.”

“It can't be helped. He's a shit captain.” He expelled a hard sigh. “It's not just that he's a sailor.”

Perhaps not. There were many reasons that men unsuitable to be captains were put in the position. “Well, I'm beginning to believe I was wrong about why the French cut him from their ranks. It's not because of ancestry or money at all. He's a blind ass.”

A smile finally lifted the corners of his handsome mouth. His eyes opened—not angry now, but not amused either. He regarded her thoughtfully. “There are few things my father said that I've ever agreed with, but one of them was: There are men who give orders, and men who take them. Captains, they often seem like they give them, but there's always a superior officer somewhere that he answers to, and an admiral that answers to a king or a parliament, who answer to their people. But a man making his living out here—or a mercenary—answers to no one. So a man fit to be captain in a war might not be fit to captain his own ship, because there's no one thinking for him anymore and telling him what to do, how to act.”

Though Yasmeen didn't disagree, she couldn't help but be amused. “I remember this from a sermon. I believe your father's point was that we are all deceived about our place, and we all take orders from God.”

He grinned. “I just take the bits I want to.”

“And what are you, Mr. Fox?” Yasmeen knew what she was. “Do you give orders, or take them?”

“I'm the type to get the damn job done myself.” He lifted her hand, pressed a warm kiss to the backs of her fingers. “Now, let's find out where this job is taking us.”

Chapter Eight

Featuring a private privy and wardrobe, a writing desk and
a berth that was wider than a plank, Hassan's stateroom was larger than their cabin by far. A small table allowed him to eat in privacy, if he preferred—now, it was spread with a large map. Hassan settled into the table's cushioned chair, quietly sipping his tea and leaving Yasmeen and Archimedes to discuss their route with Ollivier, who didn't speak Arabic. On the desk, Ollivier had piled several books, sheaves of notes, and old maps.

The first city he pointed to made Archimedes groan. “No,” he said. “Vienna is picked clean. I myself have been there seven times, a total of four months on the ground. There's simply nothing left.”

Yasmeen said, “All of the men I've carried there have said the same. There's nothing to be found. It's been abandoned the longest, so it's been picked over the longest.”

“I am not interested in Vienna, but just outside of it. I had opportunity to study Prince Albert the Fair's archives,” Ollivier said, as if in explanation. “His many-times great-grandmother was one of the Fleeing Hapsburgs.”

A member of the ruling family in Vienna and the surrounding principalities during the Horde's advancement into Europe, the Hapsburgs had fought to the bitter end—and in the New World, were as celebrated as da Vinci. But a few of the Hapsburg family had fled; they had not been looked upon kindly, and were often portrayed as villains and cowards in the theatrical plays and histories.

From beneath his notes, Ollivier brought forth a colored woodcut print protected beneath a glass plate. Faded greens and browns depicted rolling hills behind a walled city, with a river and swimming swans in the foreground. The peaked roofs of the city were all in orange and blue, and the buildings stood tall, with several ornate spires reaching into the pale sky.

“The old man was the last of his line before his demise, so I was able to acquire this woodcut from his collection, which is a faithful reproduction of a painting made by the Hapsburg grandmother.”

Yasmeen looked up at Archimedes. No doubt “acquiring” meant stealing after he'd poisoned the man. Lovely.

Ollivier continued, “Her painting of the city was the latest one that I've seen created by someone actually
in
Vienna. Many others are based upon older artworks or drawn from memory. Do you see this?” He pointed to a stout stone structure in the background, almost hidden in the rolling hills. “I've never seen it in any other depiction.”

Eyes narrowing, Archimedes leaned close to study the woodcut. “That's true. I haven't seen it before, either. But I also haven't seen anything like this ruin when I was in the city.”

“But it is up in the hills, do you see? If the forest had grown up around it, the view might have been obstructed.”