Curio (25 page)
“You were quiet tonight,” Callis said.
Blaise inspected the shadows ahead. “You had them in hand.”
Callis shoved his hands in his pockets. “New recruits are always a gamble, but I think the two porcies are with us, even if they're just enamored with all the valor talk.”
They fell silent as they walked. Who had started the whispers of revolution now raging through porcie parlors and sipping establishments? Blaise turned over the possibilities. Sir Hinderoot had been seen riding his black steamer horse around town, attracting attention from other bored upper-class porcies. Ratiki, the wealthy tock with a hand in all of Curio's new buildings, had publicly disagreed with an assembly member. Even Ames Weatherton, whose estate was slated for a strike, had a fondness for shatter-defying contraptions.
Callis interrupted his thoughts with a few calm words.
“It's Grey, isn't it? You've been more . . . surly since she arrived.”
“Surly?”
The mended porcie fixed him with a direct stare. “You haven't said what her coming means. Do you know?”
“No.”
“She's stayed longer than the man does.”
Blaise shuddered. “Don't talk to me of him.”
A smile tugged the corner of Callis's mouth. “She's Beauty's Best compared to that mangled creature.”
Blaise's palms went slick and his mouth dry. Beauty's Best didn't begin to describe Grey. And she hated him.
Noise carried from a few streets over, and he snapped back into focus. Callis cocked his head, his expression tense.
“A street game, do you think?” Blaise said.
Callis shook his head. “Too late for that.”
They rounded a corner, the ground gradually sloping to carry them farther into the maze of large factories clinging to the edge of the Shelf.
“Too bad I left the pack at home. I could've flown ahead.”
“Mind your disguise, just in case,” Callis said.
Blaise lowered his goggles, the colored lenses giving his surroundings a bronze tinge. The mouth grid he fastened on did nothing to block the metallic tang in the humid air.
They made their way through the outline of streets bordering the massive textile plants on the edge of town. The still carts of the cable tower dangled high above as they crossed the square of concrete beneath and neared their own quarter.
Two short streets lay between them and home. They turned on the first and Callis held up his hand.
“Footsteps. Tock.”
Blaise picked out the tread of many boots. His stomach dropped. He looked to Callis. “Soldiers.”
Callis nodded, his porcelain lips tipped downward.
They crept fifty or so feet to the next corner. This road ran parallel to the factory that stood directly in front of their abandoned warehouse home. Blaise trotted over the sidewalk to a stretch of grass at the base of the building. Callis followed and the two inched their way to the corner. The noise increased. Tock soldiers never seemed to feel the need to be stealthy.
Blaise craned his head around the corner. His heart turned to rock in his chest. A line of Blueboy's soldiers marched in the front door of the factory. A twin line marched out. The metal men tramping out carried equipment from his lab, armloads of clothing, a few prototypes of mechanical limbs he and Callis had designed. The stone in his chest pressed into his ribcage as a soldier emerged with his steam pack.
Blaise cursed and Callis sucked in a breath as the tock trooper lugged the flying contraption to the commanding officer. Before he could stop himself, Blaise charged around
the corner, feet pounding toward the man holding his pack. Arms jerked him back, and Callis spoke in his ear.
“We can't fight the whole platoon.”
The stone gripping his heart spread, growing like a layer of ice beneath his skin. He let his Defender state take hold and fill his veins with liquid strength. When he shook Callis off and barreled forward he felt nothing but impenetrable power.
The soldier and his commanding officer looked up, faces frozen in their usual blank expressions. Blaise crashed into the tock holding his pack. A crunching sound reached his ears as he met the solid wall of metal, but he didn't stop. The steam pack clattered to the street a few feet from where Blaise now struggled under the grip of both soldiers.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spied a commotion at the door of the factory as soldiers stopped to gawk. Callis burst onto the scene, swinging a plank of wood with his porcelain arm. The numbness covering Blaise broke for a moment, and pain, deep and grinding, registered in his shoulder. He turned from his friend and the granite strength inside him surged.
With both arms locked in the grip of the two soldiers, Blaise brought his boot up and aimed a sideways kick at the commanding officer. The man staggered backward, losing his hold on Blaise's shoulder.
Callis's shout mingled with the whir of platoon voices. Blaise used his free arm to grab the metal shoulder of the man still restraining him. He thrust his other hand forward, breaking the tock's grip and hooking him beneath the arm. A second later, the tin soldier sailed through the air to clatter into his commanding officer. Both went down.
Blaise snagged the pack from the ground and slid it on as he ran to the knot of soldiers around Callis. The modified
porcie swung the hefty plank in wide arcs, keeping the ring of soldiers at bay. Barely.
He couldn't get to Callis. Not through a circle of soldiers growing every second. Blaise turned on his heels and ran, speeding past the two soldiers he'd knocked down.
A jab of pain in his left shoulder cut through his concentration, but he ignored it and ran on. Pulling the cord to the bellows with his right hand, he reached up to release the wings with his left.
“Ahh.” He bit down on the cry of pain and made his arm obey. The wings extended. The puff of the bellows over the smoldering cinderite in the chamber carried to his ears despite the noise behind him.
Blaise looked up and his heart sank. The street wasn't long enough and the cinderite couldn't possibly heat fast enough for him to get airborne. The black pellets were probably all but cold. Still he ran, pumping the bellows until the muscles in his arm burned. The wall of the neighboring factory rose up, immovable, final. But the pistons were moving. The wings flapped.
The street beneath Blaise's feet fell away and he skimmed the side of the factory, the hastily fastened harness dragging him straight up into the dark haze of the Curio sky. Without the support of chest belts, the strap at his shoulder dug into his muscles like wicked fingers.
He doubled back and swooped down between the buildings. Callis held his ground, but the soldiers were gaining, pressing in on his friend from all sides.
“Callis.”
The modified's head whipped up. Now to see if the repairs Blaise made to Callis's arm worked. Callis lifted both arms as Blaise neared. After a moment, the soldiers raised their hands as well. They grabbed at him with fingers like
metal traps. They tore his clothes but couldn't pull him out of the air. His hands connected with Callis and he pulled. A howl escaped Blaise's lips as pain seared his shoulder. Callis's weight strained the injured joint, hauling him downward. Blaise kept his grip as Callis kicked out with his rebuilt leg, bashing heads and toppling soldiers. The ring of tin men below shifted and swayed under the assault.
And they were away, climbing into the sky. A few musket balls followed their escape, but sailed wide of their flight path.
Blaise flew, Callis dangling beneath him, to the very edge of the Shelf. The muted lights of Cog Valley below spun in dizzying patterns as pain muffled all other thought. He grit his teeth and struggled to reach a factory rooftop. A spasm burned from his left shoulder down to his hand. His fingers jerked and went slack. Callis slid but grasped his right arm with both hands. With one last push, Blaise glided over the flat surface of the roof. Callis dropped and Blaise tumbled down a few feet away. He rolled, clutching his shoulder.
Callis scrambled to his side. “You're damaged.”
Blaise tugged the loose collar of his shirt down to examine his left shoulder. The skin bloomed blue and purple. Callis bent his head, studying the bruise.
“Surface only?” the porcie asked.
Blaise shook his head. “No, something inside. Not a break but maybe torn tissue.” He tested his fingers, wrist, and elbow and winced at the movement. At least he still had some use of his arm.
Callis lowered himself to sit on the rooftop. “Do you need repairs?”
Blaise cringed inwardly but kept his face impassive. “I don't know, but we've got to get off this rooftop. They'll come looking.”
“You can't carry me with your arm like that.” Callis pointed to a door set inside a low, sloping structure much like the one on their rooftop. “I can get down and disappear in the streets. You head back to Seree's and see what can be done about your arm.”
The Defender state that had protected Blaise as he fought slipped away, dropping beneath his skin like clothes shed from the outside of his body. Pain closed in along with the certainty that no porcie or tock could fix his arm if the damage was severe. He pressed his lips tight and nodded to Callis.
“We'll meet up at Seree's then,” Callis said.
The modified got to his feet and disappeared through the door and down into the factory below. In a few moments, Blaise was airborne again. Keeping an eye on the darkened streets below, he wove through the layer of mist in the direction of the Wind-Up.
The sight of a black coach blocking the Wind-Up's entrance sent apprehension zinging through him. From the air it looked like a slab of flat slate. Mechanical horses stood motionless as soldiers milled about the courtyard. Blueboy's men never frequented Seree's place.
Blaise's chest tightened. He struggled for a deep breath in the choking fog.
A knot of soldiers emerged from the door, moving strangely. They all turned inward with their arms interlinking, creating a swarming huddle. Porcelain skin flashed in the middle of the cluster.
Seree.
They held her fast. A dozen soldiers moved as one to drag the porcelain woman into the waiting prison coach.
M
iss Grey?”
Grey jolted awake and grabbed a pillow, yanking it over her torso like a shield. Pointed shadow fingers stretched across the floor, inching toward her bed.
Another knock made her jump. “Miss Grey, it's Nettie. Let me in.”
She loosened her grip on the pillow. “Are you alone, Nettie?”
“Yes, Miss. I have your vase.”
The maid would never call attention to such personal needs with a porcie present. Grey slid off the bed and picked her way through the furnishings she'd piled against the door. She removed the chair wedged beneath the handle and cracked the door enough to see Nettie's face. The maid's shiny mouth drooped and her brown glass eyes held concern. Light from the gallery beyond spilled through the sliver of an opening, but no one lurked behind Nettie.
Grey kicked a chest full of gloves and stockings out of the way and opened the door wider. Nettie bent to retrieve the vase she'd placed on the floor and entered, a silver tray balanced in her other hand.
On cue, Grey's stomach rumbled. “Oh, Nettie, you're the best.”
Nettie's expression changed from concern to confusion. “Indeed I am not Beauty's Best, Miss.”
Grey's heart squeezed. She took the vase from Nettie's hand, placed it on a chair, then clutched the tock's metal fingers. “You are beautiful, Nettie, and so kind to bring me food.”
“It's not my doing.” She set the tray down on the vanity and twisted a dial on the wall to fill the room with amber light. “Lord Blueboy sent me with this.”
A silver bowl held a pile of blood-red cherries. Next to the fruit lay a folded sheet of paper and a goblet of water. Grey retreated to sit on the edge of the bed, her appetite squashed.
“What happened, if I might ask?” Nettie trundled closer. “My mistress is distraught. She refuses to allow me to dress her and won't leave her room. It's not just the flood that upsets her.”
“Did Fantine say anything about an incident earlier today?”
Nettie's thin metal lips pressed in a line. For a moment, Grey thought she wouldn't speak, but the maid lowered herself to a chair and twisted her hands in her lap.
“She knows Lord Blueboy finds you beautiful. She thinks you're to be his next mistress, and she'll be sent away.”
Grey dug her fingernails into the pink satin bedspread. “You can tell Fantine that in no world, this one or any other, will I
ever
be Benedict's mistress.”
Nettie's eyes widened. “Oh, Miss Grey, you mustn't speak like that. If anyone hearsâif Lord Blueboy hearsâyou'll be banished to Lower straight off.”
Grey scooted to the center of the bed and folded her legs, resting her elbows on her knees. “What is this Lower I keep hearing about?”