Strong Mystery: Murder, Mystery and Magic Books 1-3 (Steampunk Magica) (7 page)

Jinhao looked at Sir Stephen and
straightened her back like a spear.

“I am Jinhao.” She sipped,
regarding the man impassively.

Sir Stephen smoothed his face
and inclined his head. “Sir Stephen Partridge. Your servant, madam.”

Jinhao smiled at this.

“A pretty sentiment. Please to
continue your conversation.” Sir Stephen shot Owen a pained expression.
Watching him, Jinhao merely smiled, waiting for him to continue.

“You may either speak now,” she said, “or Owen will speak of it
later.” She moved her shoulders in a manner that was half ironic shrug, and half
challenge.

Owen kept his face carefully
blank, and after a moment Sir Stephen began speaking again.

“Yes, well,” the old man
recovered himself and turned his regard to Owen, giving him a thoughtful look.

“I am only here on a brief
stopover, while on other business. My airship leaves tonight. While here, a
situation has come to my attention that could be quite dire. Frankly, I am here
asking for your help.”

“I no longer work for the
Double-O,” Owen said crisply. “I believe that we are done here.” 

Sir Stephen’s eyes flashed.

“Damnation, man, you’ve made who
you don’t work for all too clear! I said
help
.” His hands clenched as
they rested on his thighs.

“You claim that you find the
Disintegrator so abhorrent,” he said with some heat. “How would you like to see
it used on this city of yours?” He jerked his head at the view. “What happened
on the field at Balaclava would be nothing compared to what would happen here.
The weapon has been improved since then. All of this would be gone in the blink
of an eye. I doubt even the Dragon could withstand it. If something isn’t done,
that possibility is all too real, I can promise you.” 

Owen sat back, keeping his face
impassive.

“Go on.” He gestured to his old mentor to continue.

Sir Stephen paused to gather his
thoughts, and leaned forward with his face much more composed.

“It is little advertised, but
next week there is going to be a new series of trade talks here between the
dual administrations of the city, both British and Imperial, and with the other
Great Powers. The subject of the talks is about trade access to Hong Kong. The
diplomatic and economic stakes are exceedingly high.” He waited until Owen
nodded, understanding the situation.

“Last week, the head of the
Austrian Embassy trade department, a chap named Kruger, was found dead. Three
days ago, the head of one of the most prominent British trading houses, Lord
Hastings, died in his front foyer.”

“I seem to recall hearing about
that,” Owen said. “I was somewhat preoccupied, however.” He waved a hand in
dismissal. “Still, coincidences do happen.” 

“I know about your activities,”
Sir Stephen said dryly. His eyes glittered in the sun. “Last night, the head of
the British Trade Board, Sir Stanley, was also found dead.”

Owen sat upright. “That is too
much, even for coincidence.” He sat down his tea cup. “How did they die?” 

Sir Stephen spread his hands,
“No one is really sure. There are no reported signs of either violence or any
of the forms of Magica at the scenes, not that the Austrians would be
forthcoming about that. The ‘official’ cause of death in each case seems to be
heart failure.” He held up a finger to forestall the comment Owen clearly
wanted to make.

“Mind you, all three men were
hale and hearty, with no known prior illness. The oldest was Sir John Hastings
of Hastings Shipping and Trading, and he was fifty-one.”

Owen rubbed his chin, and then
looked at Sir Stephen, frowning at what he was hearing. “Who do you suspect?”

Partridge slapped his thighs in
frustration, going so far as to gesture broadly with his hands, in a rather
continental fashion. “Rather say, who don’t I suspect, and that would only be the
Aztecs.” He shook his head, in dismissal of his own conjecture.

“Not their style. Besides the
fact that they do little trading outside the Western Hemisphere,” Partridge
continued. “They are finding it too fruitful to poke at us across the borders
of the American colonies, to find appeal in something like this situation.” He
marked them off with his fingers.

“The Egyptians?” he asked. “They
have no expansionist ambitions that we are aware of.” He bent another finger in
his macabre count.

“The Persians are well known to
want a port such as Hong Kong, but their new boy-King seems reluctant to
advance.” Partridge closed another finger into his palm.

“That leaves us to consider the
Austrians.” Partridge raised an eyebrow at Owen, and received a nod in return.

“We have good intelligence that
the Austrians are massing a war fleet in some little cluster of islands near Hong
Kong.” Partridge leaned forward. “We are almost certain they will have a
Disintegrator, and if they do, that they will use it. It will be Balaclava all
over again.”

“By the merciful gods,” Owen
breathed for a moment as it all came back to him. Owen remembered battle of
Balaclava too well. His nightmares would never let him forget it.

It happened during the Crimean
War, with the Alliance of Russia, England, and Austria, fighting against Persians.
As a covert operative at the time, Owen had crossed the battle lines to warn
the Allied garrison at Sebastopol of a surprise Persian attack.

He remembered the tense faces of
the commanders as he reported, and his own shortness of breath from the mad
dash. He even remembered the smell of his own fear, and the sudden greyness on
the faces of the commanders as he delivered the news. Thirty thousand Persians,
composed of regulars,
Animated
, Necromancers, plus a thousand of the
elite Magia-wielding warriors called “Immortals”, were even then advancing on
their position.

He remembered the laugh of the
general of the Austrians as he boasted, too soon, that it meant even more “demon
sinners for them to send to hell.” 

The Holy Austrian Empire
disavowed any use of Magia, claiming that their goddess decreed it so. Having
no Sorcerers,
Animated
or Constructs to add to their battle line, they
were likened to weak children on the modern battlefield. Owen wasn’t sure what the
Austrian commander was referring to; however, it had seemed vainglorious to him
at the time. He had shrugged it off, knowing only that the Austrians were
fanatics. They were a people who covered their faces from the world, lest their
Sun-Goddess see their visages and find one of them ‘unworthy.’

He remembered, uneasily, that
the next morning had dawned as clear as could be. Owen had taken his place
amongst the spell-casters of the British Regiment. They were literally
outnumbered three to one, but their morale was high, and they were ready and
willing to fight to the last. Owen felt proud to be among such brave soldiers, and
such courageous warriors as these men and women. 

He had tensed as he saw the
moving line that was the Persian
Animated
. The
Animated
moved in
a fast shuffle, with brutal cleavers and great swords in their undead hands.

“Steady on,” called the Magi’s Colonel. She walked up and down
the rows, inspecting the enlisted and the Magia, confirming to herself that
they were ready. She met the eyes of many in the ranks as she passed, giving
them encouragement, and her confidence.

“Watch out for their
Necromancers,” she warned. “Sing out when you spot one, everyone, and then
concentrate your casting. Ignore the
Animated
. Every filthy
Necro
we bring down kills a hundred of them. Steady on.”

Owen had noted a strange thing
out of the corner of his eye. The Austrian section of the line had opened to
allow a peculiar vehicle to come forth from between their ranks. Behind its
smoke stack rose a box-shaped device of some kind. Owen watched as tiny men made
adjustments to it.

The vehicle stopped and seemed
to emit a strange vibration, one that Owen could feel through the groun
d—
even at a distance. As the vibration grew stronger, he
noticed that the Persian line began to falter. Suddenly, an
Animated
exploded in the first rank, quickly followed by more. But it wasn’t just the
Animated
who were flying apart in a crimson carnage. The Persian Immortals on
griffin–back soon began dying with just as much violence. 

The vibrations began to climb in
repetition and intensity. Owen saw the Austrians run away, only to succumb to the
hideous device themselves, destroyed by the vibrations before they had gone a
dozen paces.

Everyone the vibrations touched
clutched their heads in agony. Around Owen the Magi also began to scream in
anguish before falling down dead, blood running form their ears and eyes.

Swearing, Owen raised the double
shield that the Order had taught him, only just in time to avoid the same fate.
As soon as he was shielded, he began preparing a fire bolt to defend against
the machine.

Crying as his comrades fell
around him, he launched the bolt. When it struck the evil device, there was a
huge explosion, followed by the absence of everything.

When Owen awoke from that
cataclysm, he was in shock. That moment was when his new life had begun. In
horror and agony. But it would not do to continue to think of that time now,
and best to avoid thinking of that time at all in the presence of Sir Stephen
Partridge.

He shook himself mentally,
pushing aside the memories, and reached for his tea cup. In that moment he
wished the tea was something much stronger, but he would show no possible
weakness before Partridge.

“Surely even the Austrians
aren’t that mad,” Owen protested.

Sir Stephen gave an elegant
shrug.

“Our intelligence tells us that
if they succeed in assassinating the British Head of Trade, The Duke of
Claremore, when he arrives for these talks, they will declare Hong Kong an
ungoverned city, and march in to restore order.” Sir Stephen harrumphed at this.

“Order for the Austrians would
look like total devastation. I doubt even the Dragon could survive contact with
a Disintegrator.”

“The
help
…” the old man
emphasized the word, “I would ask of you, is to find this assassin before they
can kill the Duke of Claremore and start a war. I fear such a war, a world war,
would be the end of us all.” His face looked to Owen for a moment to be grey
and haggard, before he composed himself and restored his glamour again. After a
few breaths, he appeared once more, the hale, yet elder gentleman.

“Will you help us all, Owen?”

Owen took his time lighting
another cigarette. As the smoke blew out his nose he finally spoke.

“Why me?” He turned his head to
look out at the city that now appeared to have come under threat from the same
horror that haunted him from the past.

“You have only yourself to blame
for that,” Partridge said dryly. “We did have a reasonably competent, permanent,
field agent here. However, that was before you killed him last night.”

Owen’s head whipped around,
“Renton? Renton was a member of the Order?”

“Don’t go all righteous on me,”
he demanded. Partridge’s voice sharpened. “Yes, we knew what his hobby was. If
we had any idea that he had fallen so far…” Again, the elegant shrug, “That’s
what we get for not having enough senior agents.” That Owen had been one of
those senior agents went unspoken.

Owen looked out at the city
below him. The thought of it ravaged by the unholy arts of the Austrians was
not to be borne.

“Alright, I’ll look into it.”

Partridge smiled at him. “Good
show.” He reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a hand-sized piece of white,
polished stone. “You may find this useful.”

Owen carefully took it from him.
The writing on one side caught his breath: “Be it know that the bearer of this
does the work of the Crown. All aid and assistance shall be given unto them.
Regina Elizabeth, the Third of that Name.” He stared at it, willing his eyes to
focus, but the words didn’t change.

“
Carte blanche,
my boy,”
Partridge said. “For the Wooded One’s sake, use it well.” He stood up. “Now if
you don’t mind, I have a sky ship to take.” He held up his empty hand. “May I
pick up my cane?”

“Provided you tuck it under your
arm,” Owen ordered. The old man did as he was asked, making a show of it.

“Barton will show you out,” Owen
stated blandly.

Partridge looked at Owen in
surprise. Courtesy demanded that Owen show Partridge out, if they were allies.

“If that’s how you want it,”
Partridge said gruffly, “So be it.”

“Do not make the mistake of thinking
that this changes anything, Partridge,” Owen replied coldly.

Barton shortly appeared at Sir
Stephen’s side to escort him out.

“Just don’t fail at this,” he
snapped at Owen. He followed Barton out without another word.

Owen poured himself a fresh cup
of tea, wrapping his silk robe more firmly about him. Suddenly he felt chilled,
despite the warmth of the day. He gazed off into the distance at the mountains
and the bay, and then moved his gaze over the city. Finally, he spoke to
Jinhao, his gaze still on the view before him.