Curio (39 page)

Shouts penetrated the pain-laced fog and snapped Blaise back to the present. Following the soldiers' new focus, he squinted, then staggered in the water and shook his head. What sort of creatures—?

Half a dozen pairs of huge, articulated legs attached to round metal baskets slogged through the water toward the hydro hub and the Clang's floundering crew. Porcies and tocks rode high above the sludge in the swaying, open-air carriers. As the first conveyance neared, an impeccably dressed porcie leaned out, scanning the scene. A tock behind him operated the vehicle.

At a gesture from the porcie, the tock turned the pair of mechanical legs toward the row of soldiers. The contraption sloshed to a position in between Blaise and the firing squad.

A clear, deep voice rang out. “Who is in charge of this company?”

One of the red-coated men stepped forward. “That would be me, Sir Weatherton. I'm the captain.”

The tock piloted Weatherton's walking carriage toward the speaker.

“Perhaps you can tell me, Captain, why a hunk of burning metal is lodged in my hydro hub.”

The captain stood rigid. “We believe this to be another anarchist attack by the Valor Society.” The man pointed to where Blaise sagged over Gagnon's body, fighting to focus his attention on the conversation while keeping himself and Gagnon upright.

“That is the Mad Tock right there, with a member of the crew. If you'll step aside, a bullet should slow him down considerably.”

Ames Weatherton cast a hard eye over his shoulder at the Clang then returned his gaze to the soldiers. “You'll not be shooting anything else today, thank you very much. My men and I will retrieve the radicals from the water and lock them in my cellar.”

“But, sir, they must be transported to Harrowstone at once—”

“This is my estate. I have the right to question the rebels and exact my own punishment. When I'm done with them, I'll hand them over to you.”

The captain sputtered. “Lord Blueboy will demand to be present at their interrogation, and will want to be the first to question these captives. I'm sure we can make arrangements for you to be present at Harrowstone when—”

Weatherton held up a gloved hand. “Captain, if you want the prisoners, come and get them.”

With that, the pair of legs swung around and tromped straight for Blaise. From the corner of his eye, he saw the other conveyances plodding through the water toward the malfunctioning tock crew.

Blaise staggered a step backward as the walking carriage towered over him. His right arm gave out, and he caught Gagnon's body with his knee. Weatherton's distinguished face appeared over the basket edge.

“Are you indeed the Mad Tock?”

Blaise's fingers closed on the sinking Gagnon's jacket. He nodded and panted. “Mad Tock, at your service.”

“Well, well.” Weatherton motioned to the tock behind him. A long pole appeared over the side of the basket, and a cord with a hook on the end descended toward Blaise. Weatherton's black eyes watched the process.

The hook neared and Blaise ducked, but the cord followed, the hook snapping at him like the claws of a beast. It snagged a strap on his harness and lifted him from the water. He tried to keep his grip on Gagnon, but his strength gave out. With a splash, the captain's body tumbled back beneath the murky surface.

“Don't worry about him,” Weatherton said as Blaise lurched into the craft. “We'll fish him out too.”

The tock disengaged the hook by means of controls at the base of the long pole then went after Gagnon with the
apparatus. Blaise cradled his arm while studying the immaculate porcie who leaned against a control panel at the front of the carriage.

“Have a seat.” Weatherton nodded to a cushioned bench curving around the back portion of the basket. “I have a number of questions for you.”

The gates of Blueboy's estate clanked shut behind Grey. Callis and Seree huddled nearby. The porcie woman looked like she'd crumple to the ground if not for Callis's support. A platoon of soldiers flanked them as Benedict's steam-powered carriage growled to a stop between the prisoners and the courtyard. He didn't wait for his driver to come around and open the low door, but angled his tall frame out of the seat. His black hair and the dark blue of his suit set his pale face in stark relief. Grey shivered, as his frozen expression recalled the tock jailer's porcelain mask.

He walked straight toward her, and she struggled to pull up her Defender guard. Where was it when she needed it most? Fear frayed the edges of her heart. In the east, the smoke from Weatherton's estate had mingled with the ever-present Curio fog. Grey brushed a fleck on her arm and stifled a cry. Ash.

“Welcome back, Grey.” Benedict hovered over her, the cold beauty of his features highlighting her own peril. His lids lowered so that he peered at her through those long black lashes she'd once found so beautiful. The gesture banished the soldiers, servant tocks, and her fellow prisoners. It was just her and Benedict. Just as it had been in the jeweled grove. Grey fought the urge to cross her arms over her body. Instead she thrust her chin toward him.

Could she go through with this? And if Blaise were gone—her throat spasmed—if Blaise were gone, what good
would the key do her? She might search the glass forest for a hundred years and never find the tree with the lock.

Benedict turned as his butler came up behind him. Lord Blueboy murmured something too low for Grey to understand, then he shifted his attention back to her. He spoke with command in his tone.

“Drakon, see that Mistress Grey is cleaned up. If she tries to escape, if she causes you any trouble at all”—his gaze shifted briefly to Callis and Seree—“start with their fingers.”

A surge of stone flared in Grey's gut. “I told you I'd cooperate. I'll tell you everything you want to know. No need to punish them.”

Benedict leaned closer, his voice low in her ear. Hot steam coated her cheek where his lips brushed her skin. “Oh, I'll hold you to your promise, and if you don't cooperate
fully
, well, I've become quite good at devising punishments for my tocks and porcies. I have no doubt I can come up with something exquisite for you.”

He stepped away, and Drakon took hold of Grey's elbow. The butler pulled her around the fountain in the circular drive and up the shallow steps toward the double front doors. Behind them, soldiers escorted Callis and Seree.

Grey met Callis's eyes as he and Seree were led toward the back of the house. Mismatched shades of blue darkened with worry. She thought his lips formed “Blaise.” Or maybe her heart formed the name. She shook her head. Even if he'd made it, the Clang was down, the mission failed. The crew would surely be captured. It was up to her to take the lead now, and that would require a dangerous game with Benedict. Perhaps, if she gave him selected snippets of information and offered a compelling argument, she could negotiate freedom for her and Blaise and better conditions for Cog Valley.

Drakon propelled Grey to the elevator, where steam sifted up from the crack in the floor, gluing Grey's shirt and breeches to her body. She wrinkled her nose as the odor of untreated water clogged her nostrils. Black stains covered her clothes and skin, and her hair hung in smelly clumps around her face.

She stepped into the elevator at Drakon's prompting and turned as the butler pressed the button for the second floor. After meeting Artor and Gagnon's rough crew, Drakon looked like a toy. She clenched her hands as the elevator shuddered upward. She could knock this smooth-faced tock to the floor and make a run for it, but what could she, a lone outlaw, do in an unfamiliar city?

Flat eyes noted her perusal, and as if he guessed her thoughts, Drakon spoke in a bored voice. “Once we've broken their fingers off, we'll move to their faces. Ears, noses, eyes. I daresay neither has any beauty left to lose, but it will hurt, I assure you.”

Grey sank against the wall. She had to think clearly. Her plan depended on getting close enough to Benedict to obtain the key, either by diplomacy or stealth, but her skin crawled with the memory of his hot breath. Though the porcies produced no odor, the prison stench clinging to Grey's body seemed like the residue of his nearness. She clamped down on the bile rising in her throat. Maybe after seeing her drenched and filthy, Benedict's fascination with her appearance would fade, leaving only his desire for power to contend with.

When they reached the second floor, Drakon led her to the east gallery. Grey's pulse picked up. Fantine? Fantine would help her, surely. Blueboy's mistress might've only had a passing affection for Grey, but the beautiful porcie didn't want to see her position flouted. If Grey could somehow alert
Fantine, maybe the porcelain woman would be an ally, if only to be rid of a perceived rival.

Grey's eyes flew to Fantine's door as soon as they crossed into the pink and burgundy gallery. She stomped her feet, but the plush carpet swallowed the noise. Drakon didn't even turn around.

The butler led her toward a room at the end of the wide hallway. Grey had visited it before, of course. No doubt warm water already flowed into the tub behind the door. As they drew closer, a tock appeared from one of the servants' staircases.

Grey blinked away sudden tears. “Nettie!”

The little maid gave her a small smile, but bowed her head and preceded Drakon into the washroom.

Grey didn't need persuading when Drakon gestured that she should enter the room. Nettie would help her. She could even take the maid with her when all this was over.

She tried to entreat the tock woman through the steam filling the chamber. But Nettie waited by the large tub with its padded edges and waterproof cushions, her eyes on the floor.

Never mind. Once Drakon was gone, her friend would be all concern and support. She rushed toward the tub as the door behind her closed. Nettie looked up and Grey opened her mouth to speak, but another voice—Drakon's voice—cut her off.

“Proceed with her bath.”

Grey whirled to see the butler blocking the door, his dull eyes fixed on her. A tendril of fear snaked around her spine.

CHAPTER

24

N
ow that they'd reached the Foothills Quarter, Whit's slick palms slipped on the steering wheel. He searched his head for a remnant of the drugged potion. When he found none of the bottled courage, he searched for an argument to give Marina.

“You know, it's only one night. You can take the hunter's train up first thing tomorrow. It's a matter of hours before you can see Tonio and let him know you're all right.”

Marina stared out the windshield. “I have to tell him Maverick's gone. I have to tell him we're alone now.”

Whit reached for her arm. She didn't move when he touched her sleeve. “You're not alone. I'll help you, I promise.”

“And how long before they take you?”

“Well, it could be a little longer if we don't break into the store right now.”

“I have to tell Tonio . . .” Her dead voice ended his attempt at reason.

“All right, all right. It's just . . . there's this Chemist who's been hanging around in our quarter. He's connected with Steinar's family somehow. I get the feeling he's watching me.”

Marina said nothing.

Whit pulled the delivery truck behind a grocer's on Colfax then swiveled in his seat to study her profile. The pointy little chin stabbed forward. Her tears were gone, but
she was white as gauze. She'd lost her twin, the person she knew better than anyone. A gash opened in Whit's heart. Grey's absence ached. Beneath the ache was the sense of loss his father had left behind and his anger over his mother's sacrifice. Marina had lost too much as well. So what if she couldn't see beyond the simple task of talking to her little brother? What if there wasn't anything beyond that conversation? Last conversations happened every day.

“All right,” he said. “Let's go.”