Skies of Steel: The Ether Chronicles (12 page)

Crowds gathered, both British and Arabian, facing each other in the street. More insults were hurled, and the knife edge of potential violence cut through the heavy air. It was clear by the jaded expressions on the locals’ faces that this wasn’t the first time they had been harassed by foreign soldiers, but they were certainly ready to meet aggression with aggression.

“This place’ll be better off once Britain gets her hands on it,” a major boasted, swaggering in front of the collected citizens. “Replace all this foreign nonsense with proper culture.”

“Proper culture?”
a young local retorted, stepping close. “When it was
our
culture that gave you infidels mathematics, chemistry, astronomy, medicine?”

“All improved by British minds,” the major sneered.

“And if we hadn’t given you
ferengi
coffee, you’d all still be drunk.” The young man sniffed, then wrinkled his nose. “Never mind, you’re still drunk.”

Both sides of the crowd stirred restively, tension climbing higher.

“We need to leave,” she whispered to Denisov.
“Now.”
In moments, the street would explode into a chaotic melee.

Instead, Denisov strode right into the middle of the gathered mob. The British major and the local man stepped back as Denisov placed himself between them. He towered over both men, and stared at them as if gazing at the antics of strutting roosters.

Though the British soldier turned chalky, he tried to cover it with bravado. “Siding with these dark-skinned idolaters?”

“We don’t need any outsider’s help,” the local man declared.

“Taking sides is for those too weak to stand on their own,” Denisov answered. He pulled aside the edge of his waistcoat, revealing his telumium implant. “Going to assume you know what this means.”

Mutters of shock and amazement greeted this revelation. The words
Man O’ War
were repeated over and over, in both English and Arabic.

The major paled even further. He gazed at Denisov’s hair, his long gray naval coat now sleeveless and adorned with chains and gears, and it looked as though the pieces slowly began fitting together in the inebriated man’s mind.

“A rogue,” he gulped.

“So you haven’t drunk your wits away completely,” Denisov said, affable. “Damned freeing, being rogue. Allows me all kinds of moral flexibility. Let’s say I take on every man here and lay them all out, broken and bleeding. I’ll have no superiors to report to. No local officials I’ll have to offer excuses.” He spread his massive hands. “I can do whatever I like, whenever I like. To whomever I like. And I can’t be stopped.”

“There are many of us,” the young local man said, “yet only one of you.”

“Except for
her
,” the British soldier added, leering at Daphne.

Just as she was about to assert loudly and angrily that she was a British citizen, and expected to be treated with respect by her own countrymen, Denisov’s low growl stopped her reprimand.

“You so much as
look
at her, and you’ll be chewing on your own testicles.”

Immediately, every man present pretended that Daphne had turned invisible, and their gazes studiously avoided her.

“It’s true,” Denisov continued, “that there’s only one of me, and many more of you. Yet allow me to offer you a brief illustration.” He strode to a metal railing that demarcated a café’s terrace, then pulled the railing up with a quick tug. Gasps rose up from the crowd when, with just a simple movement, he twisted the railing into a thick beam, then bent it into an arc. He tossed the bowed metal onto the ground, where it landed with a loud clang.

No one spoke. Even Daphne didn’t dare to breathe. She’d known, intellectually, that Man O’ Wars were extraordinarily strong. This was her first true demonstration of that strength, and it left her astounded. All this time, he’d been carrying that strength within him. It was terrifying. Thrilling. In a very primal way, she reminded herself.

“It’s my esteemed opinion,” Denisov continued pleasantly, as if he hadn’t just twisted thick metal with his bare hands, “that the whole lot of you should either get inside”—he directed this comment to the British officers—“or get the hell home,” he said to the locals.

Almost at once, the street cleared. The British officers filed meekly back into their club, and the citizens dispersed, sifting away like so much sand. Calm descended, the kind of calm enforced by the possibility of violence. Daphne’s pulse continued to race in the aftermath.

“We lost time,” Denisov said, turning to her. “Let’s go.”

She quickened her steps to once again walk beside him. As they snaked through the streets, stunned and wary faces stared back at them from shops and behind screened windows. Word had already spread of Denisov’s presence, and the threats he could easily make good on.

“Why?”

At her question, he glanced at her, frowning. “Why what?”

“Step in the middle of that scenario. There was no reason for you to get involved.”

He offered a negligent shrug. “They were blocking the street. We would’ve lost time finding another route to the meeting point.”

She placed a hand on his forearm. The contact of skin to skin blazed through her, but she wouldn’t pull back and reveal just how much touching him affected her.

“Finding another way would’ve taken only a minute,” she countered.

His gaze remained fastened to where her hand rested on his arm. Instead of disgust or antipathy in his expression, however, she saw desire. Fast, and quickly banked, but there all the same.

Finally, he exhaled, looking away. “Let’s say a fight breaks out between the locals and the British officers. Men hurt or killed. Bad as it is in the city now, after that it’d get a hell of a lot worse. Life would get damned tough for the locals. The officers could keep food from getting into the city. They’d shut down businesses. Conduct raids. Rogue Man O’ Wars, though, we don’t have any political affiliations. I step in, and it can’t be chalked up to any particular side.” He watched as a barefoot girl led her young sister quickly down the street, until they disappeared into an alley. “Everyone comes out clean. What?” he demanded, when he caught Daphne gazing intently at him.

She said, “What you just did back there seems awfully inconsistent for a man who claims to only be concerned about profit. Is it possible? The mercenary actually cares about others, even if there’s no profit in it?”

He scowled. “You don’t know a damned thing about me.”

“So you’ve noted,” she conceded, “and I agree. But what I am learning is fascinating.” Including the fact that he didn’t like to be reminded of his sense of humanity or justice. He seemed determined to show himself in the very worst light.

Mikhail Mikhailovich Denisov had to be the most enthralling man she’d ever met, and she had encountered a good many people in her studies. He was more than a binary of good or bad, far more complex than he was willing to allow. And that captivated her, as much as she was drawn to him by their shared attraction.

“I don’t want your intrigue,” he said, pulling his arm away. “Just your diamonds.” He moved on, and she had to follow.

The threat surrounding her had never been greater. She tried to put aside thoughts of Denisov’s complicated nature and the even more complicated bond between them, yet whatever peril she faced, she faced with and from him.

S
HADOW-SHROUDED, FULL OF
professional thieves and killers for hire, places like the Café Ifrit existed all over the world—and Mikhail had been to most of them. Hell, he was on a first-name basis with half the scum who frequented those places. They knew him for the cold-blooded mercenary he was, and they also knew that only a fool would ever give him trouble. Being a Man O’ War made him an aberration, but it also granted him deserved respect. He never feared for his safety when walking into yet another seedy watering hole.

Yet setting foot inside the Café Ifrit with Daphne Carlisle by his side, he was hamstrung in a way he hadn’t ever felt. She had no telumium implants. She couldn’t hear a blade being drawn from its scabbard halfway across a crowded room. She couldn’t see a cold-eyed assassin hiding deep within the darkness. Miss Carlisle was simply a woman. For all her claimed experience out in the field, she wasn’t battle-tested. Could she handle herself if things got rough? Could he protect her if she were in danger?

He’d met her in a place just like this one, and she’d handled herself fine. Hell, when she’d set foot in that tavern in Palermo, she’d done so with every intention of deceiving him. And he’d had no idea. In that grimy Sicilian watering hole, she’d seemed like just a prim scholar, but her starched appearance had hidden a very different woman—one who tricked an expert at deception. It was almost admirable, that skill, if he hadn’t been on the receiving end of it.

No wide-eyed innocent, this Miss Carlisle.
She’d find a way to survive.

Even so, the leer the British officer had given her still made fire surge through his veins. Mikhail had meant exactly what he’d said: anyone who tried to harm her would learn new definitions of pain.

That had been out in the street. Walking into the smoky café, with its many chipped, tiled columns and an abundance of sinister looks from its patrons—most of whom sported daggers up their sleeves or tucked into their robes—Mikhail knew he’d have a harder fight on his hands if anything happened in this place. But he’d emerge the winner. He always did. He’d just have to keep Miss Carlisle safe in the process.

She’s an investment. That’s all.

Tension showed in her eyes as she scanned the room. “The emissary said we’re supposed to meet him in a back room.”

“Of course he did,” Mikhail muttered. He rested his hand on the ether pistol strapped to his thigh. A brief hesitation, and then he pressed something into her hand.

“My revolver,” she exclaimed. “I didn’t know you’d taken it from me.”

His ship was crewed with thieves who could steal the Pope’s miter while it was on his head. “Now you’ve got it back. Don’t waver if you have to use it.”

“Never have in the past.” At his surprised expression, she continued, “Sometimes out in the field, bandits or raiders tried extortion. They wanted gold or jewels, or me.” With a practiced movement, she checked the Webley’s cylinder to ensure it was loaded, then snapped it back into place. She tucked the weapon into her jacket’s inside pocket.

“And got neither for their trouble,” he surmised.

“I couldn’t send them on their way empty-handed. So I gave them limps, or pretty holes right in the middle of their shooting hands.”

“Ought to rethink my opinion of academics,” he murmured, reluctantly impressed.

She sent him a smile that spread light through his chest. “We’re not all trapped behind desks or squabbling over tenure.” But her smile quickly faded, replaced by the same tension that had followed her into the café. “Where the hell is this back room? We find it, then I get my parents back.”

He doubted it would be that simple. Few things in life ever were.

Before they took another step, a man in a robe and vest approached them, saying in Arabic, “This way,
sayidati
.” He walked briskly ahead, his arm outstretched as he guided them around columns and tables, past a boy rattling a tambourine, until they reached a curtained chamber. The man pulled the curtain back and waved them inside.

Neither Mikhail nor Daphne Carlisle moved.

“Ah, Miss Carlisle. I am Abdul Shakur al-Zaman.” A man with a neatly trimmed white beard rose up from the table at which he’d been sitting. His robe was richly dyed, and golden threads wove through the sash at his waist. A curve-handled blade was tucked into his sash. He bowed, not very deeply. “Very punctual. A British quality I so admire. Though I hear you nearly caused a brawl outside the
ferengis
’ club.”

It wasn’t a surprise that whoever this man was, he had eyes all over the city. And it didn’t shock Mikhail that the emissary spoke smooth, elegant English.

The shock, however, came from the two men who stood directly behind al-Zaman.

Two other rogue Man O’ Wars. One, Mikhail had never seen in his life. But the other, he knew very well. He’d killed him in his dreams many times.

“The hell are you doing here, Olevski?” Mikhail demanded.

Olevski smirked. “Earning a living, just like you.” His gaze flicked up to Mikhail’s hair, and down his altered coat. “How you’ve changed, old friend.”

“Treachery agrees with you,” Mikhail answered. “As ugly as ever.” Which wasn’t entirely true. Olevski still had the square jaw and blond hair that had made him so favored in the navy. And by Mikhail’s sister, Irina. But the bastard’s face turned Mikhail’s stomach.

The other rogue Man O’ War had long black hair, worn tied back with a bandana. He looked bored by the exchange between Mikhail and Olevski. A true mercenary, that one.

Miss Carlisle’s gaze shot back and forth between Mikhail and Olevski. “Whatever bad blood you two share,” she said tightly, “it’s going to have to wait.” She turned her attention to al-Zaman. “I demand to see my parents.”

Al-Zaman merely smiled. “Of course I would not bring them to a disreputable place such as this. My master wants them as safe and well cared for as possible.”

“How courteous,” she shot back. “But I need evidence that your master is, in fact, keeping them safe and cared for. That they aren’t, in fact”—she swallowed hard—“dead.”

The pain in her voice pierced through the red haze of anger engulfing Mikhail.

“It wounds me that you would doubt my master.” Al-Zaman pressed a hand to his heart.

“Go cry on your mother’s tits,” Mikhail growled. “Give us proof.”

Al-Zaman heaved a put-upon sigh, then nodded at the unknown Man O’ War. The man muttered something in French, then placed a wood-and-brass box upon the table and opened it. A square of white silk was attached to the front inside edge of the lid, while the bottom of the fabric was affixed to the inside edge of the box itself. As the lid was positioned, the silk stretched taut.