“Drogo, Drogo. You worry too much,” Thwaites said with a shake of his head. “It’s a European condition—always focused on the problems instead of the potential.” He took another puff of his stogie. “After all, this kind of thing happened in Russia a while back, the last time someone tried to mine tourmaquartz, right? And it all worked out.”
“The
gessyan
escaped and slaughtered all the miners and the peasants in the village,” Veles replied tonelessly. “Until those damnable witch-priests bottled them back up again.”
“There you have it,” Thwaites said with a shrug. “Once we have all the tourmaquartz we can mine, let someone find the witch-priests to shove the genie back in the bottle, as it were. We’ll be so wealthy no one can touch us—and we’ll control the most valuable resource for armaments and airships in the world. All the kings and despots and generals will have to pay our price. I’d say that’s well worth a few dead miners, wouldn’t you?
“Things are never that easy,” Veles grumbled. “This problem with Desmet is a sign.”
Thwaites made a dismissive gesture. “You and your ‘signs’. Stories for old women.”
“That’s what you think of the Night Hag? A story for old women?”
Thwaites hesitated, but regained his bluster soon enough. “You knew about the
gessyan
. You knew that mining too deep could free them. You should have taken precautions. I thought you had magic for that kind of thing.”
“‘That kind of thing’ is more complicated—and dangerous—than you want to bother your pretty little privileged head about,” Veles shot back. “Your men on the police force won’t be able to keep it quiet forever.”
“A small price for the payoff we’re going to have,” Thwaites replied, grinning like a very full cat. “We’ll be wealthy beyond compare.”
“I have learned that it is best to count one’s money only after it is well in hand and one is far from the scene of the crime. It’s too early to make assumptions. For one thing, we’ve got to regain control of the
gessyan
and increase the number of workers in the deepest levels.”
“That’s why I brought in Dr. Tumblety and Dr. Brunrichter,” Thwaites replied in an off-handed manner, as if discussing additional waiters for a garden party. “I have the utmost faith that they will solve the problem.”
“We’ve had enough mad doctors around lately.”
Thwaites chuckled and took a slug of his scotch. “Really, Drogo. The good doctors are committed to helping us with our labor problem. They’ve been dabbling in resurrectionist territory for years, and no one but Farber has come as close to working clockwork corpses as they have. Look how well the prototypes are working.”
“They shamble and stink.”
Thwaites clucked his tongue. “It’s not as if they’re serving canapés. When they wear out, we make new ones. Plenty of bodies to choose from. They don’t snivel and scream like the miners we enslaved.”
“At least they have their wits about them,” Veles muttered. “Your clockwork corpses can barely lift and dig.”
Thwaites shrugged. “That’s all they need to do. Metal men would be better, of course; the
werkman
prototype we stole from the Department was a boon for Tumblety—he managed to put together a few copies rather well, don’t you think?”
“I think it would be better if we just abducted Farber and had him build more of his wondrous
werkmen
himself.”
“I’m working on it,” Thwaites said. He stretched, then rose and poured himself another glass of scotch and took a second cigar from the rosewood humidor on his Hepplewhite desk. He took his time snipping off the end of the cigar and lighting it. He blew a smoke ring with a sigh of satisfaction and smiled indulgently at Veles.
“I’ve gotten quite cozy with Farber’s bosses at Tesla-Westinghouse,” Thwaites said. “Throwing sizeable sums of money at their pet projects seems rather to endear one to them,” he added with a smirk. “I make sure to admire Farber’s work, and inquire as to the good boy’s health, suggesting that I might have a project or two coming his way.”
“It would be easier to just snatch him and be done with it,” Veles countered. “It’s not like we can let him live when we’re done with him.”
“Leave the kid-gloves to me,” Thwaites said. “Everyone knows Farber is brilliant, but flighty. We’ll get what we want from him, then arrange an accident. You’ll see.” He narrowed his eyes. “Maybe you should be more worried about putting those poltergeists from the mine back in their place. I’ve lost four overseers in as many weeks.”
He took another puff of his cigar and went to look out the windows. Thwaites’s grand home on Ridge Avenue looked out onto a busy street. The streetlamps lit the sidewalk with a warm glow, and now and again, well-appointed carriages rolled by, heading for New Pittsburgh’s Alvin Theatre and further downtown.
Veles knew his business partner considered himself American royalty.
What does he know of royalty?
Upstart. A well-heeled braggart in a country too wet behind the ears to have any real history of its own. Toss him in with European nobility and even the ones who aren’t vampires would eat him alive.
He took a deep breath.
Useful. Remember—useful.
“I intend to ‘put down those poltergeists’, as you say, when we’re done with the demonstration,” Veles replied testily. “You’re welcome to come along if you’d like to see for yourself.”
“That’s quite all right,” Thwaites said, just a little too hurriedly. “I still don’t know what’s so important about a couple of old Russian stones with scratches on them and some Polish madman’s book.”
“The Alekanovo stones are artifacts of power,” Veles replied. “They can channel and amplify magic. Marcin of Krakow’s book recorded the ritual—the ‘spell’, if you like—that was used to bind the
gessyan
the last time they broke loose.” He looked at Thwaites with annoyance. “I’ll put it in language you can understand. Having the stones and the book is like having the proper tools and the instruction manual. You might be able to do without them, but it will take longer and is likely to end badly.”
“That doesn’t explain why my men couldn’t get into that Polish witch’s apartment,” Thwaites grumbled. “They said it was like there was an invisible wall around the door. Couldn’t even get close to it.”
“That would be magic,” Veles replied drily. “Jasinski knew someone was after him, or he wouldn’t have disappeared. He set a powerful warding around his apartment and shop. One that even I can’t cross.”
“So Jasinski is a better witch than you?”
Veles ignored the impulse to throttle Thwaites. “It’s not uncommon for one witch not to be able to dispel magic set by another. Jasinski would have expected a witch—perhaps me in particular—to want what he has. If he couldn’t keep it, he made sure we couldn’t get it.”
“How do you know the Russian stones aren’t in there?” Thwaites asked.
Veles shook his head. “Jasinski specializes in sending nasty spirits back where they came from. He does more exorcisms than the priests. And his power is real, there’s no doubt about that. So of course he took the
gessyan
rising as a personal challenge. If he has the Alekanovo stones—and Marcin’s book—he will try to bind the
gessyan
, and send the Night Hag back where she came from.”
“And you’re sure that’s what is in the missing box, the one he hired Brand and Desmet to smuggle out of Poland?”
Veles nodded. “Jasinski has been in touch with witches all over Russia and Eastern Europe. He found what he was looking for, but it’s difficult to get certain objects out of there these days. Brand and Desmet specialize in acquiring hard-to-find objects, without always worrying about the letter of the law. Of course he’d go to them to get what he needed.”
“If he knows someone is after him, he’s probably long gone,” Thwaites replied.
That’s what you’d do,
Veles thought.
Then again, there’s not an ounce of real commitment in your body.
“Not Jasinski,” Veles said. “I met him on a few occasions. He’s like a bloodhound when something intrigues him. He’s out there somewhere, trying to figure out where his pieces are, trying to make a plan for how to do what he set out to do. If we had the stones, I could be certain of controlling the
gessyan
,” Veles continued. “Without them, it will be more difficult.”
If Jasinski hadn’t betrayed me, those stones would be in my possession by now, and we’d have the lid back on our own little hell
. “I’m going to need those artifacts to pull the Night Hag and the wraiths and the hell hounds back into the mines,” Veles added. “But in the meantime, I’ll see what I can do about keeping the
gessyan
from eating all our workers.”
“Frankly, I don’t see the problem with the Night Hag,” Thwaites said, swirling the amber liquid in his Baccarat Crystal glass and taking another puff of his cigar. “A good dose of fear keeps the rabble in at night, off the streets.” He chuckled. “You know, they’re actually talking about it being the Ripper at work?”
“The murder victims may not be members of your pricey Duquesne Club, but that doesn’t mean they’ll go unnoticed forever,” Veles said. “Murders attract attention, and that’s bad. Especially when it wouldn’t take much for a clever policeman to trace the deaths back down the rivers all the way to Vestaburg.”
“You’re assuming one can find a ‘clever’ policeman in New Pittsburgh who isn’t on my payroll,” Thwaites replied. “I’m still surprised the spooks don’t just prey on the miners. Why go out when there’s good food at home? Seriously—why can’t you just magic the tourmaquartz out? Save us time and money.”
“First, because that’s not the way magic works,” Veles growled. “Even I don’t have limitless power, and trying to control dozens of miners in the deep levels at all times would be suicidal. And second, because science is harder to track than magic. Every use of magic runs the risk of bringing the Department down on us. They have watchers who look for that kind of thing. Bad enough that we’ve used the magic I’ve already done for you. Fortunately wards and protections to keep the remaining
gessyan
in the mines don’t make much of a ripple. Anything else, we might as well send up a flare.”
“Pity,” Thwaites said.
“It’s my spells that are keeping them from devouring your miners on the upper levels,” Veles said. “The overseers can’t be helped. They go lower than the slave-workers, and I can’t sustain wardings on a bigger area than I’ve already warded. Magic has its limits against old power like
gessyan
,” he added. “And there aren’t enough of your clockwork corpses and metal men to mine the tourmaquartz and the coal if the rest of the miners die or get so scared they won’t come back.”
“They won’t strike,” Thwaites replied. “Frick broke the union’s back. The Homestead Strike put a nail in that coffin.”
Veles considered pointing out a number of instances when peasants had indeed had enough of their masters despite the cost and risen up, with disastrous results for men like Thwaites.
His kind is doomed to repeat history,
Veles thought.
They consider themselves above it.
Magic had extended Veles’s lifespan long enough for him to know the meaning of caution. Witches of his power could live a century and a half or more. Not as long as a vampire, but more than sufficient to inform his perspective.
“Don’t think yourself so smart,” Veles growled. “There’s always someone. Or one of those muckraking journalists like that Ida Tarbell woman sniffing around for a story. And how they’d love to find a pretty little heir to a local fortune hip-deep in the muck,” he said, raising an eyebrow.
“We’re in this together,” Thwaites shot back. “And I’ve got enough lawyers on retainer to take care of Tarbell and her ilk. You handle the magic; I’ll handle the media.”
“I
FAIL TO
see why you’ve brought us to the middle of nowhere.” The Spanish nobleman leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. He and the other passengers of the well-appointed, private passenger car looked out at the empty land on either side of the railroad tracks and then returned to glowering at Veles and Thwaites.
“Gentlemen! All will be made clear very soon,” Veles promised.
Their guests were a volatile mix of personalities. A Spanish nobleman with financial interests dependent on Spain winning its conflict with the United States, an Italian anarchist, a leader of the Greek nationalist movement and a wealthy Sudanese tribal chief. All had come here for a demonstration of what Veles had promised would be a ‘game changer’ in pursuing their varied political interests.
“All of you depend on steam-powered machines—either for weapons or for transportation,” Veles said. “But coal is bulky and dirty. It’s difficult to transport and large endeavors require an unwieldy amount. What if you could power an airship with something no larger than my finger?” he asked. He had their full attention now.
“What if you could create powerful weapons with a sliver of this substance, making them smaller and easier to transport?” he asked, withdrawing a piece of tourmaquartz from one pocket. “This,” he said, holding the crystal between thumb and forefinger, “is the equivalent of four cases of dynamite.”
“Unbelievable,” the Spaniard said with a dismissive gesture. “Do you take us for fools?”
“A pretty fantasy,” the Italian added. “Prove it.”
Veles signaled to the
werkman
who until now had stood silent at the end of the passenger car. The mechanical man came forward, and Veles inserted the sliver of tourmaquartz into a small opening in the
werkman
’s chest. “Leave the rail car,” he ordered. “Go three hundred paces east. Then stop.”
Obediently, the
werkman
did as he was told, and stopped within sight of the windows of the train. Veles’s guests moved to look out the windows.
“Observe.” Veles lifted a detonator. “An aetheric wave transmitter, attuned to the same frequency as the electrical system of the
werkman
,” he said, pressing the button. “When a high voltage charge goes through the tourmaquartz—” The resulting explosion was spectacular enough he did not need to finish his sentence.
The excited buzz of exclamations and questions rose to a din before Veles raised his hand. “I’m sure that what you’ve seen gives you some ideas,” he said with a smug half-smile.