Curio (34 page)

“What are you, sir?”

Blaise suppressed a smile. “I'm afraid no one really knows.”

The smooth-faced tock considered this for a moment, one corroded hand resting on the handle of his shovel. He shrugged, and his line of a mouth spread into a smile. “I'm called Myver. I'm in charge of the cinderite.”

The tock pushed his shovel into a half-f bin of pellets, kicked a lever to open the firebox, and deposited his load within.

“Is that all there is?” Blaise nodded toward the cinderite.

“It takes a lot to fuel the engine and get the balloon filled,” Myver said. “Now that we're in the air, we won't need to burn as much, so Captain Gagnon tells me.”

“How secure are the boilers?” The tanks he'd seen lashed to the outside of the Clang rattled with the airship's flight.

Before Myver could answer, a jolt shook the airship, and Gagnon's raspy voice called from the bow. “Ascending the Shelf. Give 'er more cinderite, Myver. Blaise, take a look at the factories.”

Blaise pulled his bellow cord to reheat the cinderite in his steam pack, then he walked to the edge of the stern and
stepped off. Once he was clear of the air current, he pressed the button at his shoulder to release his wings. Nothing happened.

He jabbed it again and again. Wind whipped at his clothes as he plummeted toward the junk stacks of Cog Valley. He reached behind him with his good arm, yanking the wings out. A click sounded, and the wings whooshed into their full spread. Blaise sucked in his chest and stomach as he skimmed over a tall pile.

Pulse thudding against his ear drums, he made a wide turn and flew toward the black face of the cliff and up, gaining speed on the slow-moving airship. He passed her and shot up toward the top of the Shelf. In the distance on his left, the gondolas moved up and down the cable line, a sign that work in the factory district went on as usual.

Blaise cleared the edge of the Shelf. Below, the short, narrow streets between the factories bustled with working tocks. A few porcie overseers, dressed in suits, walked between offices or rode in carriages. Glimpses of red and white among the throng sent alarm skittering through his veins. He retreated to a higher altitude. Soldiers patrolled the district, probably stationed there after the raid on his warehouse. Clearly Blueboy was on high alert. He probably suspected the Mad Tock of stealing his prized masterpiece right out of her bedroom.

He circled back, dipping below the Shelf and heading straight for the Clang's bow. Gagnon and his first mate, a tall tock with thick bolts on either side of his head, opened hatches on the side of the airship's snubbed nose.

“Soldiers,” Blaise called through cupped hands. “Lots of them.”

He gestured to his right. Hopefully Gagnon understood that he needed to cut through the corner of the factory
district, exposing the Clang for as little time as possible. They didn't want to raise the alert until they'd reached the Weatherton estate.

The Clang banked to the right, her sides rattling with the motion. Blaise escorted the airship as she climbed, eyeing the edge of the Shelf as it drifted into view. Immediately, he noticed the hull was too low. Pipes protruded from a factory roof ahead, jutting into the sky like tock fingers ready to grab the ship.

Blaise signaled to Gagnon to bring the ship higher. Myver likely stoked the firebox at double time as the Clang climbed higher an inch at a time. One eye on the smokestacks and one eye on the ship, Blaise motioned for Gagnon to steer toward him.

The ship continued to turn. The bow cleared the first pipe. And the second. Blaise checked the streets below. This far corner of the factory district was quieter, but a few redcoats marched at the next intersection.

The Clang ascended. Her bow cleared the third conduit. Blaise held his breath. Just a little higher and they were safe.

A resounding scrape echoed from the stern of the airship. Blaise whizzed to the side of the ship. The great boilers weighed the stern down. The keel dragged over the pipes, sending a grating noise out over the factories like fanfare.

He turned in time to see tocks and soldiers freeze in place like pieces on a game board. Commotion followed. Voices carried even to Blaise's position high above. He whipped back to the bow, motioning frantically.

“We've been spotted,” he shouted when the first mate opened the hatch.

“Figured as much,” the tock answered.

“Let's see some speed.” Blaise looped back to the stern. A jab to his lift button met with a grinding sound. A mechanical
hitch? After a heart-pounding moment, his wings lowered and he shot back into the open stern, landing in a pile of cinderite on the floor. He rolled away from the heat of the firebox. Myver shoveled with efficient speed. The pile of cinderite had dwindled to a mound since he was last aboard.

After a nod to the busy tock, Blaise rushed around the mechanism in the center of the ship, passing more working tocks as he loped for the quarterdeck. The first mate hung over a railing, shouting orders to the tocks below. Blaise thundered up the stairs and came to a halt by the great wheel.

Gagnon dragged the wheel to starboard, his bead-like eyes fixed on the airspace visible out of the windows.

“We've lost the element of surprise, I'm afraid.”

Gagnon didn't take his eyes off his course. “We were always meant to draw attention.”

“Where are the arms? Maybe I can take some soldiers out before they have a chance to drop us from the sky.”

“Melc, get this man a gun.”

The first mate opened a long metal box stowed on the deck. Inside an array of tock-designed weapons waited. Melc chose a strange metal sleeve with long cylinders running the length of it, as well as a small shooter with a clear barrel and a pouch attached to a belt.

Blaise took the pouch first and found long bullets inside. Wincing, he buckled the belt to his waist and slid his right arm into the metal sleeve. When his left arm refused to cooperate, Melc helped him fasten the gauntlet straps.

“The ammunition is for this.” He pointed to slots on the sheath covering Blaise's forearm. “You reload here.”

The first mate held the small glass-tubed gun up. “This'll disrupt a tock's mechanisms.” He cracked a smile. “So be careful where you aim it.”

Blaise tucked the shooter into one of the straps on his harness. He nodded to Melc and turned as the first mate bellowed to the crew.

“To arms. Weapons at the ready.”

Blaise quickly made his way to the stern, checking that he had the space he needed before pressing the button to extend his wings. The mechanism responded with only a slight grating sound. He folded them in again and shuffled to the edge of the opening. Head and shoulders slanted into the airstream, he prepared to dive.

A blast rocked the airship. The grid beneath Blaise's feet tilted, leaving nothing below him but empty air.

CHAPTER

21

T
he ring of metallic footsteps reached their hiding space first. Grey shot Callis a look, and the modified porcie nodded. The line of his mouth hardened.

The figure of a running soldier appeared between the spokes of the carriage they crouched behind. The tin man approached the guards positioned before the portcullis. Bits of speech carried across the street as the soldier waved his arms.

“Great ship . . . floating in the air . . . gearish tocks . . . attack!”

Four of the six identical soldiers split away from their formation and ran for a long stone building flanking the prison. In a matter of minutes, redcoats poured from the barracks. They fell into line, forming two rectangles of about forty soldiers. At a signal from one of the soldiers in the first row, they moved as one, trotting down the street in the direction of the factory district.

“Excellent.” Grey smiled at Callis and squeezed the long black cane she'd brought from Gagnon's house. “We can take the two they left behind.”

Callis lifted his porcelain hand in a halting gesture. “Wait. It's not just the guards. There's the portcullis to lift.”

“So we need someone on the inside. Maybe if we hold a guard hostage—”

“We need Artor.”

“Who?”

The ground vibrated, sending tremors through Grey's tightened muscles.

“Here he comes now. He was waiting in the valley for a signal from one of our tocks.”

The carriage they hunkered behind jerked forward. The horses stamped their feet, steam jetting from their nostrils and ears. Grey planted her cane to keep her balance as the street shook.

Callis pointed down the road that led out of town and branched off into Cog Valley. A huge corroded head appeared, followed by a thick, square body. Massive limbs swayed with each step.

“Artor is a digger by day and a star in the tock boxing rings by night,” Callis said. He caught Grey's eye. “Blueboy had Artor's brother dismantled after a cave-in caused a delay in his sapphire shipment.”

“Halt!” one of the guards cried. When Artor barreled on, both soldiers dropped to one knee and aimed their muskets at the approaching tock. Sparks and smoke sprayed into the air as they fired. Pings sounded from Artor's frame, but the tock lumbered on.

“Now,” Callis said into Grey's ear.

He darted around the back of the carriage, staying low and moving with porcelain grace. Grey followed, eyes on the soldiers reloading their guns. Callis slipped to a position a few feet behind the first distracted soldier. Grey moved behind the second just as they'd planned. The next shot was their cue.

Eyes on the small key protruding between the metallic tails of the tock's coat, Grey rushed forward, dropping behind the man as he retrieved ammunition from a bag at his
waist. Her fingers brushed the key, but the soldier whirled. She raised the cane, intercepting the barrel of his musket as it whizzed through the air. The impact knocked her back and she landed hard on the dirt road.

The soldier scrambled to his feet, leveling his musket at her.

“Callis!” Grey pushed up to stand.

In the corner of her vision, the other soldier crumpled to the ground. Callis stepped over him, heading for the redcoat who had his gun trained on Grey. From above them, Artor thundered to a halt.

In a blink, the tin soldier clutched his musket to his shoulder and ran for the city. Grey started to follow.

“Wait,” Callis shouted after her. “Let him go.”

Grey drew up and looked over her shoulder. “But he'll alert more troops.”

“Our mission is to get in and get out.” Callis tilted his head toward the prison.

Grey spun around and ran back to where Callis and Artor studied the portcullis.

“What do you think?” Callis angled his gaze up at the massive tock.

Artor grunted and slid thick fingers beneath the grille. The mechanism creaked. As Artor hoisted the lattice, pops and the sound of splintering wood rang out from above their heads. The grid buckled in the middle, and Artor folded the metal and wood in on itself, creating space for Callis and Grey to duck under.

Callis stopped to face the tock from inside the prison. “Thank you, my friend.”

Artor grunted. Grey studied his heavy features a moment. Stone-like eyes stared forward and his mouth remained an impassive slit. When he backed away, she looked at Callis.

“He can't talk, can he?”

“No. His face no longer moves. I had no idea if he'd show up today.”

They turned to survey the inside of the prison. Grey shivered at the high walls that seemed to draw closer at the top where they met the arched ceiling. Darkness rushed over her, and the wall of floodwater echoed in her memory. She shook her head to banish the sound of descending waves.

“Do you hear that?” Callis whispered.

Maybe it wasn't her imagination. “Water?”

“Yes.”

Grey struggled for breath as her surroundings pressed in. They stood on a walkway a short distance from another door, this one metal painted a dull cream color. Tiny squares of courtyard lay on either side of the walkway, hemmed in by the soaring walls of the building.

“Are you ready?” Callis took a step toward the inner door, and Grey's gaze followed, taking in a series of black marks tracing its perimeter. The design tickled Grey's memory, but she couldn't stop to study it. Callis waited, his mismatched eyes on her.

She joined him, gripping the cane before her body with both hands. For a moment they stood on the threshold of Harrowstone. Grey focused, not on the door Callis was about to kick through, but on the modified porcie. Blaise trusted him. Blaise had saved him. But Callis's loyalty lay with the woman suffering in the depths of this prison. He'd been willing to trade Grey for Seree. No doubt he still was.

The thud of Callis's foot against the wood snapped her to attention. Apprehension skimmed her flesh, raising the fine hairs. Something worse than metal men waited beyond this door.

Thud.