Scarlet Devices (20 page)

It was endless. A sea of gold, broken only by occasional islands of red or pink. More than she had imagined, more than her worst fears. The scope of it was simply too much for her to comprehend.

But she knew one thing. They
were
some pretty impressive fields.

 • • • 

M
ATTHEW KNEW THEY
were being herded, steered by the pirates. With no effective way to combat them, however, he didn't see much choice but to let himself be steered. Cantlebury had taken up a position in front of and below Eliza, so at least they were flanking the party member who was arguably most vulnerable, but he didn't know what good it would really do. Eliza's body was completely exposed on her suspended rigging. With no basket to hide in, she'd be utterly open to attack.

Of course, Matthew wasn't fooling himself into thinking he or Cantlebury were much better off. Cantlebury's basket was wicker, and Matthew's chair arrangement was wicker and light wood. Nothing that would stop a bullet any better than Eliza's leather harness. Their only real hope was to outrun or outmaneuver the pirate ships somehow, but Matthew lost all hope of that when he topped the rise, searched for the other two balloons and instead saw poppies. A whole world of them. From his vantage point he could see the mouth of the next valley to the north; it too shone golden, as did the valleys to the south and west.

He swore a vow in that moment to never again say something was a dream come true. This was his dream come to vivid life, and he would give anything for it not to be. As in the dream, the fact that it was largely beautiful to look at made it even more horrifying. They hadn't seen pirates earlier, he realized, because Orm had been biding his time; failing to intercept them earlier, the Baron had simply waited for the remaining racers to come to him.

Cantlebury's carnival-bright silks were a hopelessly easy target. Matthew almost felt it was a foregone conclusion when he heard the shots, saw his friend's balloon begin to billow as it lost hot air and altitude. Too fast, by far, for safety. He turned in the direction Cantlebury fell, and wondered how far he could make it before—

He heard the “ping” and felt the rush of air before he heard the gunfire. He ducked, cursing, straining the limits of the belts that held him in place as he tried to avoid the jet of steam shooting from a tiny nick in his boiler. The bullet hadn't gone in, but it had creased the metal enough for it to give under the pressure. His balloon could keep him aloft, but without the engine for his propeller he'd be stranded in the air without propulsion. Deciding quickly, he aimed for the patch of poppies where Cantlebury's balloon was slowly sinking. It was at least a quarter mile away and he wouldn't make it, but at least he could put himself closer. The thin, hissing needle of steam was already slowing, its pitch lowering as the pressure dropped.

He cut the gas and unhooked all but one of his straps, holding the buckle until he was inches from the ground, and then ripping it free and leaping from the basket chair to roll to one side. The basket hit hard, a portion of the wicker crushing on first impact. Off-kilter and now deflating far too quickly, the balloon skimmed over the still-hot gas jet apparatus. A scorched black hole appeared in the silk as Matthew watched. The center portion blew away quickly, pure ash, and the edges of the hole crackled with heat for several seconds before it finally burned itself out. Dashing as quickly as he could at a crouch, Matthew made it to his fallen craft and assessed the damage. The primary balloon sported a hole he could fit his head through. One of the side ballonets was also compromised, though it had only a singe mark that could probably be patched fairly easily. The chair was a mess, but the controls were intact as far as he could tell.

At a fluttering noise from overhead, Matthew dove to the ground, attempting to hide behind a row of poppies. He had never known how tall the flowers were, but even at shoulder-height they were thin, stalky plants and provided little cover. Not that he needed it. The balloon noise wasn't one of the pirates, it was Eliza, touching down a few feet from his crashed airship. She'd grown more adept at shedding the harness, taking it off like a rucksack then stepping out while the balloon was still mostly aloft, only deflating it once she had secured the rigging and shut it all down. The whole process took her perhaps two minutes.

“The pirates followed Cantlebury down, at least one of them did. Are you hurt? Can you get up?”

He was already doing so, though he still remained at a crouch. Smaller target, he reasoned. And less far to fall if he did get shot. “Stay low.”

“Matthew, I'm in the middle of a field of yellow flowers at high noon, holding a giant red cloth. Your ship cut a swath on its way that might as well be an arrow pointing here. We're discovered, rest assured.”

She was only holding the silk a few moments longer, however, before it was all safely stowed in its harness. He took the works from her and stuffed them under his basket seat, not questioning his impulse to hide them. Eliza was right, though, they had no way to avoid being apprehended.

“Do you have your weapons?” He checked for his own as he asked, taking the opportunity to shed his flight suit. He might be less than fashionable in shirtsleeves, trousers and suspenders, but at least he was no longer sweltering. The noontime spring sun in the western Sierras was surprisingly warm.

Eliza's cleverly designed suit was built in layers, and she'd left the warmest outer portions back at Lake's Crossing. She unbuttoned her jacket but left the rest, concentrating on checking her guns to ensure there were rounds in the chambers. One remained in its shoulder holster; the other was tucked into the back of her breeches and hidden by the jacket. Matthew's own thigh holster was far more obvious. He kept his second pistol out, in his hand and cocked.

“Cantlebury's that way.” She pointed in the direction of the “arrow” his crash had carved, continuing the line. “Do you suppose we ought to—”

“Get down!” he shouted, as bullets flew over their heads. He got off only one shot before hitting the dirt.

A steam lorry careened down the lane between two poppy rows, jerking into the flowers to avoid the obstacle of Matthew's downed balloon, then skidding to a gravel-spewing halt nearly on top of Matthew and Eliza.

“We have your little friend,” a voice called from inside the vehicle. “Fire that again and the next bullet you hear will be the one that goes into his skull.”

L
ORN
O
RM DIDN'T
seem surprised to see them at all.

“Mr. Pence. Miss Chen.”

“Miss
Hardison
,” Eliza retorted, glaring with all the force she could muster. Anger was more useful than the terror that currently threatened to overwhelm her sanity.

They'd been trussed up like geese and flung into the back of the lorry, where they were relieved to find that Cantlebury was only feigning unconsciousness. After a short, painfully rough ride, the doors were flung open and the three of them were hauled into the bright light again. Dazzled, it took Eliza a few seconds to realize what she was seeing. In the forefront of her view was a castle. A fantastic Mediterranean-style palace, in terms of grandeur, but she could see the gunners in the turrets and the fortified walls surrounding it, and recognize it for what it really was. A home for a king who was less than secure about his personal welfare.

The truck was parked in a great paved courtyard in front of the castle, and glancing behind her Eliza saw a structure nearly as large as the castle but built with no pretense at aesthetic appeal. It was squat and ugly, its dull gray exterior interrupted only by a portcullis gate and one row of small windows near the roof. It bristled with smokestacks, a few of which were active.

The gate was up, and workers shuffled in and out of the building in two loose files. They hardly looked human. Their skeletal bodies were barely covered by filthy, ragged scraps of clothing, and many of them were covered in suppurating sores that appeared to be untreated.

Their captors jerked Eliza to the front, carrying her along by the ropes around her body, letting her toes drag on the ground. Struggling earned her a clout on the head from one of them. “Lord of Gold wants to talk to you. He didn't say you needed to be unharmed, just talking, so watch yourself, girlie.”

She considered attempting to bite him, but thought better of it for a number of reasons. The blow had hurt, for one thing, and she didn't want another. She also didn't want to brand herself a troublemaker before it was absolutely necessary; troublemakers were often guarded more closely, which was the last thing she wanted. Although her guns had been taken, she still had her boot knife, and if she could get her hands free she might find the chance to use it. And finally, the man's hand was visibly dirty and unappealing, the creases dusty and nails quite black. If she had to bite someone, at least let it be somebody who bothered to wash once in a while.

Matthew was ahead of her, being dragged along in the same semi-prone manner she was. She assumed somebody was bringing up the rear with Cantlebury, who had still appeared out cold when they were taken from the lorry.

The guards, or henchmen or whatever they were, pulled them along into the castle, which appeared to be every bit as ridiculously grand on the inside as it had been outside.

Vulgar
, Eliza pronounced it to herself instantly, sneering silently at the gilt-topped columns and the gleaming marble floor with its fanciful inlay of what seemed to be semi-precious stones and various metals.

Directly off the grand entrance hall, the guards stopped in a slightly smaller chamber and muttered something to a pair of surly-looking, heavily armed gentlemen. One of them nodded, and the other whistled sharply toward the corner of the room. From behind an enameled screen shambled half a dozen of the pitiful opium wretches, these at least nominally clean and clad in simple homespun tunics and trousers. They made their sad way across the room to a large horizontal wheel apparatus, positioned themselves, and began to push.

As the wheel turned, the rumbling sound of a large geared mechanism met their ears. And then, as if by magic, the floor spiraled up before them, each piece of metal inlay revealing itself as a step in an elaborate spiral staircase. Looking up to where it narrowed, Eliza saw that it rose to meet a catwalk that extended over the center of the large chamber.

“Walk,” the guard commanded her roughly, yanking her fully upright as they headed for the fantastic stairs. Eliza could see Matthew sneaking glances, both at the stairway itself and elsewhere, with his mouth gaping like a yokel. That was probably intentional, to make the guards think he was a bit of an idiot, but she could sympathize with the reaction if it wasn't. Say what one might about Orm's business practices, or even his taste in decor, one could not deny the man had flair.

Yet he too was simply dressed when he finally greeted them, turning from his wide window to welcome them to his estate with false bonhomie. He wore the loose cotton garments of desert people, plain white with no collar and no ornaments.

“Miss Hardison,” he repeated, accepting the correction as if it concerned him not at all. “Pardon my attire, you caught me at my usual meditation hour. But no matter. Can I offer you some refreshment?”

Orm wore that same false smile he'd had at the lecture, the one that hid layers of nastiness. He was enjoying this, their discomfort and his own power, a great deal.

“Oh, forgive me,” he said, smacking his forehead as though he'd actually erred. “My men, so zealous. So protective of me. Untie my guests, please.”

When the ropes dropped, Eliza considered going for her knife right then, could almost see herself aiming for his belly, then upward at a sharp angle under the ribs. The clarity of the vision startled her. She had never known anything remotely like the rage and fear of this moment. Hadn't even known she was capable of feeling this way.

“Where's Cantlebury?” Matthew asked, his tone carefully modulated to quell his hostility. How she knew that, she wasn't sure. She could hear it, though. He sounded dangerous, and more controlled than she felt.

“I sent your small friend to a quiet room for some rest. He seemed to need it. You'll be joining him shortly, Mr. Pence, never fear. Ah, and here is tea. Come, sit and talk with me.”

Eliza's journey into the surreal continued as she found herself seated on a wide divan, in front of an elegant silver tea service. The footman who carried it in had worn fancy white livery, the jacket featuring a poppy design in gold. Everything in the castle seemed too calculated. Too manufactured. It was the fantasy world of a child who had grown up imagining what lords and ladies did, without ever actually meeting any. Orm styled himself a Baron, but did anyone truly know? Had anyone ever challenged him? Eliza would have been willing to bet that he didn't come by his title through inheritance, at the very least.

“No milk, no sugar,” she told Orm as he poured. Another lapse, that; she should have been given that honor. But then, he probably wanted to control the food, and there was only one good reason for that. Eliza paused with the teacup halfway to her lips, pretended to drink, then set it down again and refused a tempting lemon biscuit when Orm offered the plate.

“Oh, my dear girl. Are you concerned about poisoning? If I wanted to drug you, you would already be drugged. Case in point, your Mr. Pence. Sweet dreams, Mr. Pence.”

Eliza gasped as Matthew slumped to one side, nearly sliding off the ottoman. He tried to rise, pointing at Orm, who merely sat calmly with that same infuriating smile until Matthew sank to the floor in a limp, unconscious heap.

“What have you done to him? Where are they taking him? Matthew, no!” Eliza tried to pry one of the guard's fingers from Matthew's arm as they lifted him to carry him from the room, but he ignored her and kept moving.

“Now, now. Never fear, Miss Hardison, he's in no immediate danger.”

She rounded on Orm. “Never fear?
Never fear
?
Matthew was right, this is all a game to you, isn't it?”

“
Matthew
, is it? That's useful information to me. You've just tipped your hand. Tipped your hand, Miss Hardison, you see? I've used your little game metaphor against you, just as I might now use Mr. Pence against you if I needed to persuade you of something. Ah, well, perhaps you'll appreciate it later. Perhaps not, as ‘later' is a dwindling resource for you. Which is a shame, because you're quite lovely, objectively speaking, and I do like pretty things. If I were a different sort of man, I would ruin you and force you to marry me in an instant. The irony would be superb.

“I am not, however, that sort of villain. My assessment of you is purely aesthetic, not prurient in the least. But your beauty has value, because it will make the story—my move in the game, if you will—that much stronger.” He sipped his tea calmly, still smiling, for all the world as if they really were simply chatting over a nice cup.

Eliza could hear her heartbeat thumping in her ears, feel the tempo of its pressure against her stays. She sat again and forced herself to breathe out fully and slowly, to trick her body out of doing what panic dictated. Ignoring the content of Orm's words, she looked around the room, playing his game of host and guest. “Your home is spectacular, Lord Orm. I particularly enjoyed the staircase.”

This space was half study, half drawing room. There was a wide window to which she saw no opening, and a vast desk in front of it in some rough-textured ruddy wood she didn't recognize. It didn't quite fit the fussy details she had seen thus far. It was serving its purpose, though, strewn with documents and supporting what appeared to be an architectural model of a factory, minus the exterior walls. The seating and tea table were straight from another child's story, low and ornate, with Mediterranean motifs in keeping with the overall theme of the palace.

“Thank you, my dear. I'm quite fond of this place. The staircase is but one of many wonders it holds. But the real treasure is out there.” He waved toward the window. From Eliza's vantage point she could see mostly poppy fields and the rising mountains beyond under the clear afternoon sky. Orm rose and beckoned her closer to the window, gesturing with more specificity once she drew near enough to see what he was actually pointing at.

The courtyard she'd arrived by was directly below them, the ugly factory facing them across its expanse. From here in the heights of the castle, Eliza could see beyond the surrounding wall, and what she saw filled her with sinking dread.

“Breathtaking, isn't it? It's like that in all directions. As far as the eye can see, and more. And all of it belongs to me. No middleman, no negotiation with the Chinese or some potentate with delusions of power. The Chinese have all but stopped trying to sell opium on the black market in the Dominions now. That market is now mine. And soon I'll have just as much control over legal sales, undercutting not only the Chinese but also the British East India Company. This, everything you see out there, is
my
treasure.
My
hills paved with gold.”

“Your El Dorado,” she supplied meekly.

“Precisely.”

“They're not all gold, though,” she pointed out. “Some are red and pink, and I saw some white patches when I was flying in. Do the different varieties have different applications? If you don't mind my asking.” The dastardly villains in bad novels always explained these things at some length when they planned to kill a character, so she thought it wouldn't hurt to ask.

“Ask away, my dear child. After all, you won't live to tell anyone.” He was quite cheerful about this, and she began to grasp just how insane Orm must truly be. “The golden poppies are my own creation, a special hybrid created specifically to thrive in this environment. It has the hardiness of the native flowers of this region and parts south of here, and all the potency of the varieties one finds in Asia. And some other very nice qualities I find useful.”

Gathering herself, pretending it was a game, she smiled in what she hoped was an encouraging way. “Such as?”

“It quells anxiety without necessarily putting the user to sleep.
Papaver somniferum
, the opium poppy we all know and love so well, is primarily useful as a sedative. The drug made from the common opium varieties slows the user down, system by system. Respiration, digestion, the nerves. Really, they're all but useless once they're under. Might as well be dead. But
my
poppy keeps them up, keeps them moving. They still feel little pain, and I gather things are rather dreamlike for them most of the day. Quite a bad dream, I suppose, for these poor creatures here.” He pointed again, this time at another line of ragged, trudging workers. “But it works out so very well for me. They have practically no appetite, they're content with gruel, which is an excellent delivery method for the tincture, and they're incredibly biddable. Dose them a bit more heavily for their off shift—I'm not a monster, after all, they do need their rest—and they'll sleep like babies.”

“Babies who've been dosed with laudanum.”

“Yes, yes. And the best part is, while it's certainly as brutally addictive as any of its better known cousins, my hybrid can be used for much longer before the effects are noticeably reduced. Users don't build up a tolerance nearly as quickly, especially at low, steady doses. Why, some of these workers last for years before they wear out and need replacing.”