Steam Dogs (19 page)

CHAPTER 37

Simon slipped his tools into
the packet at his waist and moved silently toward the sitting room, flattening
himself against the wall behind the door. Shouts sounded from the main deck,
outside the Queen’s cabin. Dozens of pairs of running boots came pounding up
the companionway. Whoever had been at the door was distracted from his search by
the alert.

His heart pounded as the
ship rolled beneath his feet. He padded silently across the room to peek
through the curtains. Nearly a dozen uniformed men stood at the rail, staring
at the wake of a fast-moving steam paddle-wheeler heading downriver. Some
drunken pilot had nearly plowed into the royal tender. Already, the men were
beginning to relax, he heard a few snorts and nervous laughter.

He let out a breath.
Almost time to go
.

On the Foppa job, and all of the big jobs he
and Arvel had done together before the Il Colibri was completed, Simon would flash
his greenfire from the balcony, and the balloon would drift silently overhead
until Simon managed to grab the trailing line and pull himself up. The
nearly-silent stabilizing propellers gave Arvel pinpoint control over the
balloon’s positioning, but they needed calm air and the cover of darkness to
take advantage of it.

The night of the Foppa job, he and Arvel spent
the rest of their thirty-minute flight back to the circus camp hooting into the
night and exuberantly discussing their plans for the future, only to discover
that the job wasn’t over until they were in the clear.

That night, when Arvel set down the balloon at
the circus camp, Xavier Zollo and Father Otto stepped out of the deeper shadows
beneath the trees to greet them.

 
“Where have you been?” demanded Zollo.
 

Simon had never seen either man so angry. He
did not protest when Father Otto yanked the knapsack from his hands and tore it
open, revealing the thick packs of money. “Where did you get this?”

Too late, Simon realized, what was about to
happen. Zollo had warned him the very first day.
How could I have been so stupid? I've done this thing and have only
myself to blame.
 

But Arvel answered for both of them. “It was my
idea. I needed money to build my airship—I swear it’s the first time!
We’ll never do it again.”

“First time, eh?” Zollo flipped over the edge
of a tarp lying at his feet, revealing their smashed and now-empty strongbox.
All the money they’d managed to take over the last two years—gone.

Blushing, Simon exchanged a panicked glance
with Arvel. They both knew what this meant.

“I won’t abide thieves," Zollo spat.
“You’re out, the both of you. You know the rules and you’re both old enough to
pay the consequences.”

 
“What
about the act?” Arvel protested. The two of them had developed it together, and
it had become Zollo’s biggest draw. People came from all over Europe to see
Simon perform a flaming dive from the basket of Arvel’s precisely-positioned
balloon into a tank of water far below.

The ringmaster’s anger seemed to grow even
darker. His wild hair stirred in the light breeze. “Zollo Bothers Circus will
get by, just as we always have.”
 

Otto had their bags already packed. “Begone!
You’re not welcome here anymore.”

Tight-lipped, with his face flaming, Simon
picked up both their bags and turned away from the camp, a still-sputtering
Arvel beside him. They walked side-by-side in silence until they were well out
of earshot.

“Why did you tell them it was you?” Simon
asked. Ahead of them, the eastern sky was growing light with the first hint of
dawn.”

“Because if I hadn’t, you would have taken all
the blame. We’re in this together, remember?”

“They might have called the police.”

Arvel laughed. “No they wouldn’t. I was more
scared Zollo might kill us. I never thought he’d kick us out.”

Simon couldn’t help but think their success at
the Foppa estate was only a hollow victory, now. They’d been discovered and
lost everything. Once again, he was out on the street—this time with only
himself to blame.

But Arvel wasn’t done yet. “I can’t believe
Zollo took all our money! I didn’t have the nerve to ask him to give it back.”

In spite of himself, Simon grinned. “If you
had, he would have bit your head off and served it up on a plate.” All the
same, he was grateful for Arvel's unwavering loyalty and that this time, he
would not be alone. “So where do we go?”

Arvel threw his arm across Simon’s shoulder. “That’s
what I love about you, Simon. A lack of funds never seems to get you down for
long.”

“Oh I didn’t say anything about lacking
funds.” Simon reached beneath his shirt and held up one of the packets of gemstones
he’d taken from the estate. “I just wanted to know where we go to buy our new
balloon.”

Arvel laughed and pounded him on the back. “In
Italy, we have a saying, my friend. All roads lead to Rome.”

#

Seconds ticked by. Simon peeked through the
curtains again. Where was Louie and those blasted fireworks? As Benoit used to
say,
the job isn’t over until you’ve
gotten away with it.

A few moments later, the first red flowers
exploded over the airfield across the river. He relaxed; relieved that more
guards had joined their companions at the railing, watching and oohing at the
fireworks spectacle across the river.

Now
.

With the crew distracted by
the fireworks, Simon made his way toward the stern unobserved, and slipped over
the rail on the port side. After shivering in the unheated cabin, the black
waters felt less frigid than earlier. As before, he allowed the current to take
him, keeping his head above water as he drifted past the massive
HMY Victoria and Albert II
and the
College Wharf to the quayside stairs leading up to the Trafalgar Tavern, where
he’d earlier cached a set of dry clothes in an oilskin sack, beneath a pile of
broken barrel staves.

He walked briskly, up Park
Row, turning right at Trafalgar Road, where he managed to hail a cab to take
him across the bridge to London, and paid the driver extra to cross over to the
island. Traffic was light, and they made good time. By the time the coachman
stopped in Millwall, the great clock of Westminster was chiming ten. Late, but
not too late.

Energized by his success, Simon
strode purposefully down West Ferry Road, eager to get back to the hangar and tell
Arvel the good news. All these years of striving and scraping were about to pay
off. Now, he and Arvel would finally have the money to build his dream ship. Everything
they’d worked for…

But when he reached the
intersection of East Ferry Road, which would lead him up the hill toward the
hangars, and Ferry Street, which would take him toward the tavern, he
hesitated. The pub would be closing soon. If he returned to the hangar, he
would miss seeing Welsie. And he wanted to see her; especially after his
near-miss with her in the balloon this morning.
I should have kissed her, then
.

He was certain she would be
expecting him to stop by tonight. If he didn’t show, she would think badly of
him, and that thought was entirely unacceptable.

He glanced up the hill
toward the dark hangars. The good news could wait.
I need to see her. Now. This minute.

He turned south toward the
Tavern.

As he approached the pub, he
heard a woman screaming. The sound was coming from the ferry launch behind the
building. He raced toward the sound. As he rounded the corner of the Tavern, he
saw her. Welsie. She was hysterical, beating at Hamm as he held a man below the
surface of the water.

But wait—no. Something
wasn’t right here. Without thinking, Simon called up his flames as he
approached them. That wasn’t Hamm. It was--.

The thing that wasn’t Hamm
shoved Welsie hard away from him and bent toward his victim, shoving the body deeper
below the surface of the water.

Welsie spotted him. Her eyes
widened, “Help him!” She pointed to the man struggling in the water. “He’s got
Roman!”

Simon ran forward, scooping
up the officer’s discarded cutlass. His own green flames crept up the blade,
sending emerald-colored sparks up into the night.

The massive creature had
turned its back to them, and was entirely focused on holding the unmoving body
of Greenslade below the water.

Simon raised the sword and
plunged the flaming blade between the beast’s shoulder blades. With a grunt,
the huge man turned toward him. The blade, embedded deep in bone, was wrenched
from his grip.

The thing wasn’t human, Simon
realized. A transparent blue film covered film his eyes, and his face had been
stretched and distorted beyond recognition. It reached for the sword embedded in
its ribs, but it was out of reach.

To Simon’s surprise, the
harmless green flames, which had illuminated the blade, had grown and now
engulfed the monster. It flailed about, batting at the mock flames as it panicked
and moved away into deeper water. Instead of extinguishing the flames, the
water seemed to feed them, and the more the creature struggled, the higher the
mock flames grew. Even below the surface, Simon could see the greenfire enveloping
the creature’s legs and thighs. With a hoarse cry, it finally plunged headlong
beneath the surface and the let the current take him.

“Simon, help me!” Welsie’s
shout brought him back. She’d dragged the lifeless inspector up onto the dock.
“He’s dead! You’ve got to do something!”

PART III

INTERLUDE

OCTOBER 25, 1854

Near Balaclava, Crimea

At five o’clock in the afternoon, Sir Magnus Vetch entered the
command tent of General Fitzroy Somerset, commander of the Queen’s forces at
Balaclava. Sir Magnus entered the tent cautiously, uncertain as what awaited
him. General Somerset would be held accountable to the British Empire for the
day’s earlier disastrous results on the battlefield, and no doubt was looking
for a scapegoat among his senior officers.

Already inside, stood
Lieutenant-General
Brudenell, the seventh Earl of Cardigan, who had led the charge of the Light
Cavalry Brigade. Sir Magnus knew the fellow had purchased his high rank using
his family wealth and influence to gain the position. An ill-regarded officer,
the man was hopelessly arrogant and completely unfit for command.

Standing beside Brudenell stood his brother-in-law,
George Bingham. Commander of the Cavalry Division. Lord Lucan was to have
delivered Somerset’s orders to Brudenell for the charge, but everyone knew the
two men harbored a fierce dislike for each other. Bingham, he noticed, was
sweating, even as the night was chilly.

Brudenell’s actions today had resulted in the deaths
of more than one hundred men, and many more would likely die of their injuries
over the next days or weeks. Yet even with some forty percent of his men either
dead or unfit to serve, the son of a bitch appeared unrepentant—even
unaffected by the day’s losses. His boots looked freshly polished.

“I obeyed Bingham’s orders to the letter, General,”
said Brudenell, as he helped himself to a glass of the General’s sherry. “My
orders were
to
defend our position against attack. Defense of position does
not
mean attack. We stayed on the
plateau as per your orders, and over the objection of some of my officer’s, I
might add.”

He’s called me here to bear witness, Sir Magnus
realized; to vouch that Somerset’s orders had not been vague, but deliberately
misconstrued.
Of
the two, Bingham would most likely get blamed for the error, but he suspected
that both men had intentionally misconstrued the General’s orders

“I sent Nolan to you with explicit orders to
advance the light cavalry to
the Causeway Heights immediately, and harry the Russians as they withdrew,
preventing them from taking their guns with them,
”
Somerset accused.

“Nolan wasn’t specific,” Bingham said. “I didn’t know
what guns you were referring to. When I asked him for specifics, he waved
toward the north valley. I finally sent him to Lord Cardigan with orders to
move in.”

Brudenell raised an aristocratic eyebrow. “Oh really?
General, his orders were to attack without quarter—even
after
I pointed out the Russian
artillery to him. I seriously doubt he even bothered to conduct
reconnaissance.”

Not true,” protested Bingham. “I gave him the option to
retire from battle if no opportunity to take his objective presented itself.
He’s the one who sent his men to slaughter. He’s an incompetent and you know
it. Where’s Nolan? He can set the story straight.”

“Nolan’s dead. He died in the first artillery salvo.”
The Earl of Cardigan sipped his sherry and made a face, seemingly pleased to
twist the knife in such a dramatic way. “I can’t imagine General Airey will be
happy about losing his aide-de-camp.”

“Dead?” Bingham’s face paled. “Why the hell was he
riding with
you
?”

“I had no idea he was there. The idiot even had the
nerve to cut in front of my horse at the charge.” Brudenell raised his glass to
his brother-in-law. “His death is all on you, George.”

Bingham pointed directly at Sir Magnus, saying, “Ask the
wizard. He can settle this.”

Suddenly, Sir Magnus felt the glare of all three angry
men settle upon him. General Somerset, he knew, had no use for magick in battle
and was uncomfortable having the Royal Wizard assigned to his most senior staff.
Sir Magnus harbored no ill feelings toward the commander and had made an effort
to offer counsel only when asked.

Sir Magnus frowned. “I detected no magickal attack
this day.”

Bingham persisted. “Don’t you think it rather odd that
Nolan would join the charge of the Light Brigade? He was not part of our
company or under General Somerset’s command. He could have been in thrall to
one of those damned Russian occultists. What’s that fellow’s name?”

Bingham’s desperation to pin the blame on magick was
ridiculous. “There is absolutely no indication that Orlov Koschkei was in any
way involved--.”

“I don’t care what you think, Vetch. I want you to
wake Nolan up, or whatever it is you do to them, and make him talk. This was
not my fault. Nolan will verify my story word for word.
The dead cannot lie
.”

Sir Magnus said nothing. Bingham’s eyes were far too
bright.
He knows he’s going to be ruined
.
 

Bingham turned to address his brother-in-law. “This
wouldn’t be the first time you intentionally misconstrued my words with the
intention of playing me as the fool, but this was your failure, not mine.”

Brudenell brushed off the accusation with an attitude
of total nonchalance. “Foolish is as foolish does, George. Question the dead
for all I care. It will be you who will be blamed for this. My men fought like
lions today. And where were you with your heavy horse to back us up? You sent
us in to die.”

 
“Could you
actually do what he is suggesting?” General Somerset asked. “Can you speak to
the dead?”

Sir Magnus knew Bingham was one of Somerset’s most
valuable officers, but Somerset needed someone to take the blame.

Whatever Nolan said or didn’t say would make no
difference. As the commander of the battle, General Somerset would be blamed
for today’s disastrous loss. The whole of England would be embarrassed. And in
spite of his incompetence, intentional or otherwise, the Earl of Cardigan was
too well-connected to get dragged through the mud on this quagmire. No doubt he
was already lining up the purchase of another promotion for himself.

Magnus nodded. “Aye. But the use of magick leaves a
stain to those who know how to read the signs. I don’t think it would be
appropriate to raise the dead for the purposes of asking a question about what
was said or not said. The Russians have not yet unleashed Koschkei. If I were
to raise the dead, he will know it and the Russians will not be shy about
unleashing their own wizard. He’s up there, on the hill, just waiting for us to
play trump., claiming we started it.”.

 
“And what
if the Russians did unleash their wizard?” asked Brudenell. “How would you
respond? Could you defeat him? If you can raise one dead soldier, couldn’t you
also raise our dead as an army?”

Sir Magnus felt the color rise in his cheeks, but said
nothing. This was dangerous talk, and something only General Somerset could
order him to do.

 
“Yes, burn
them out!” said Bingham, with no little heat.

“Alas, my power is earth-based. I have no control over
the element of fire.”

“Why am I not surprised?
”

Somerset looked as if he
wanted to slap Brudenell, but the light of inspiration shone in his expression.
“Look here, Sir Magnus. We lost more than a hundred
men today. Could we really use them to take the battery on the Causeway Heights?
If we do it tonight, the fort at Sevastopol will fall. The Russians would be
forced to the table or retreat with their tails between their legs. This war
could be over in a matter of days. Instead of a defeat, the battle of Balaclava
will be forever remembered as yet another major victory for England.”

 
“Yes. An
attack tonight would change everything.” Bingham looked as hopeful as boy
receiving his first pony. “As the Royal Wizard, you
must
do this.”

Brudenel scoffed. “Good heavens, George. Don’t be
ridiculous. Royal Wizard indeed. The title is just that; a ragged remnant of
tradition. It carries no more relevance here than the Master of the Hawk, or
the Gentleman of the Horse. The Queen’s Flower Painter.”

Magnus pressed his lips together at the insult and
gave a slight bow. “As you say, sir.” His voice bore no hint of resentment.
“The Queen does not hold with warcraft by wizardry. I am here in an advisory
capacity only, gentlemen.”

“Royal Wizard indeed.”

“Oh shut it,” said Bingham. “We’ve all had quite
enough of
that
.”

Brudenell really was bloody awful. Never seen a man so
full of himself.

Somerset poured a glass of sherry for himself. “Albert
has never approved of sorcery, but he is not here. If we took that battery
tonight, the lives of thousands of our good British soldiers could be saved.”

Bingham quickly added his support. “And those dead men
will not have died in vain. They will be remembered as heroes.”

A thrill rushed through Sir Magnus. What a bold idea. Not
only to reclaim the victory for England, but perhaps even cut down that Russian
wizard as well. This was an opportunity not to be missed.

“Is this your command, then, General Somerset? Speak
plainly, and without doubts. Tell me what you would have me do.” Sir Magnus
wanted no mistakes. Magickal warfare was not something to be considered
lightly. He’d always imagined it would come down to a duel with Koschkei. And
he had no doubts at all about who would win
that
battle.

The seventh Earl of Cardigan suddenly seemed to
realize that the decision had been made without him. “Oh, very well. If they’re
already dead.”

General Somerset took a deep breath before speaking. “Sir
Magnus, you are ordered to use your magick this very night and raise as many
dead soldiers as necessary to take the battery at Causeway Heights for Queen
and country. Do whatever you have to do, but take that hill before dawn. After
today’s debacle, they will not be expecting a surprise attack. Teach them a
lesson—that the British Army is undefeatable.”

“Here here,” echoed Brudenell and Bingham; in perfect
accord, for once.

“Are you very certain about this? Word will get out,
General.” Magnus held Somerset’s gaze until the General nodded.

“You will accompany me and a small escort, Sir Magnus.
I understand you are able to mesmerize men to keep them from remembering the
encounter?”

 
“Aye.” Until
tonight, that had been the only action the General had allowed him to
use—and then only on soldiers traumatized by the war. “They’ll not
remember any of it, even under oath, it that’s what you want.”

“You heard the man, Vetch. The honor of Britain is at
stake. Obey or face arrest for insubordination. Even treason.” Brudenell’s tone
was irritating, but his words carried the weight of truth.

A cold thrill rushed through him. “It shall be done.”
He could not quite hide his anticipation for what he was about to do, or ignore
that fluttery feeling in his chest that he was about to make history.

#

An hour later, inside the morgue, the sight of dead
men crawling to their feet filled Magnus with a thrill unlike anything he’d
ever experienced. This was not a magick he was born with; he had taken it from
an earth mage of the northern fjords. Until now, he’d had no reason to use it.

The power coursed through him—thicker than
blood. He kicked off his shoes and jacket as his own body swelled; he had
become a vessel. Like molten rock, the magick force surged into him; heating
the blood in his veins until he thought he might burst with the pressure of it.
Each time he approached the body of a dead soldier, he laid his hands on either
side of the dead man’s face, and pushed a bit of that power into the corpse. He
had no need for words; the terrible connection between them was of the mind.

Arise, soldier.
Hear my call. Heed my bidding.

And as his magick flowed into the corpse, the eyelids
would flutter, the hands would twitch, and one by one, his earth magick flowed
into them and each would begin to grow in size. Without a word, they cast off
their boots and clothing and moved down the valley, following his unspoken
commands. A dozen of the dead were too badly mutilated to raise, but the
rest—nearly a hundred, obeyed.

With the revival of each corpse, a new surge of power
flowed back to Magnus. Never before had he ever attempted something like this.
If he had known it would be like this, he would have done it sooner.
I could rule the world
, he thought, and
knew it was true. With a single thought, he could bring them to a full stop.
And just as easily send them on their grim mission again.
So much power! This is an army that cannot die. And it belongs to me.

When the last of the dead had risen, he ordered them
to march. Although his thoughts ruled them, and his magick had quickened them,
their own magick grew with every step they took across the rocky and trampled terrain.
Their posture straightened; they walked in step, just as they had in life. He
followed the pale giants as they made their way up to the ridgeline toward
their quarry along the Causeway Heights.