Arcadia Snips and the Steamwork Consortium (21 page)

"He struck me as quite scared," Starkweather observed.

"You would do well to treat him gently."

"Yes," Nigel agreed. "Terror describes him aptly, I think.

Most men are valiant out of ignorance; they have blinded themselves to reality, believing that the universe shall reward their virtue."

"And he is different?" Starkweather asked.

"Quite," Nigel said. "He clearly understands that the world is best compared to an indifferent storm; one which dooms the virtuous man even as it delivers his villainous brother to a safe and familiar shore."

"And as for his concern over your daughter—"

"Oh, yes," Nigel said. "He is quite obviously smitten with her. Very inconvenient, all things considered."

"For you, Master Arcanum?"

"No. For him," Nigel said. "My daughter loves only two things—the city of Aberwick and herself. And I daresay there is precious little room in her heart for the latter. She is more likely to treat him like a pet than a suitor."

"What shall you do? You told him so little of the truth."

"I will watch him, of course. I owe his father and mother a debt that cannot be repaid," Nigel said. "Perhaps, through him, I an acquire some small means of atonement."

"And you wonder why your daughter loathes you."

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Starkweather?"

"You use those around you as tokens in your ongoing battle against the universe," said Starkweather. "You see the world as a challenge, and all of its inhabitants as your instruments."

"And what is wrong with that?" Nigel asked. "So long as you are good at what you do, and do not sacrifice your pieces fruitlessly?"

Starkweather shook his head. "Life is more consequential than moving pieces on a game, Master Arcanum."

~*~

William's home was the saddest shade of blue he had ever known; it sat in a lonely niche among the upper ward, with white trim lacing that run across the edges of the roofs and domed windows. Although it looked like it hadn't seen a repairman's hammer for years, it still managed to look quite stately among its cohorts, resembling an unmarried duchess dressed in splendid but fading attire, maintaining her dignity despite the scorn of her peers.

The house had been in his family for over a century. He had considered selling it, but had never found the heart to do it; his grandmother loved it, and he still nursed a secret hope that one day she would be able to return.

William stepped inside, stomping his feet down on the welcome mat. The interior of the house resembled a museum more than a place where someone lived; furniture that had not seen use for decades gathered thick layers of dust, with expensive-looking relics and pieces of china preserved under glass like fossils on display. Every so often, there was a hint that someone actually lived here—a teacup out of place, a folded newspaper here, some spare crumbs lining the edge of one table—but for the most part, the entire home seemed to be frozen in another time.

William pondered and sorted over all the information that Mr. Arcanum had revealed to him. There was a great deal to think over, but he was slowly discovering a much different story concerning his parents then he had originally believed—a story that William was intensely interested in learning.

He was thinking over what he should do next when he noticed that his grandmother's grand piano was missing.

"Huh?" William peered down at the spot on the floor where it had once been; he could make out the silhouette of the piano where dust had failed to gather. A note had been pinned there. He reached down for it, plucking it off the floor and reading it.

DON'T LOOK UP.

He sprang backward just as the grand piano crashed through the ceiling, sending a swell of broken splinters up in front of him. It hit with a discordant WHANG, exploding in a snap of wires and timber as it hit.

"Agh," William gurgled, falling to the ground and sliding away on his hands and bottom. "Agh!"

"You're not Arcadia," a voice called out from above.

William looked up. Staring down at him from the hole the grand piano had left was a sinister looking gentleman in all black.

His head was shaved, and he had a false nose of bronze; his eyes burned with discontent. In his hand was a pistol.

"Um, no, I am not," William said. "You know, that piano was quite expensive—"

"You don't say. You have no idea how long it took me to lug it upstairs," the metal-nosed man said, and then he jumped down.

The man moved like liquid from one container to the next; there was a terrible grace about him, much like a spider descending upon its prey. He seemed to float atop the wreckage of the piano, crouched over it and staring down at William. The pistol was aimed at the floor, but the young mathematician had the sense that the assassin didn't need it to do away with him if he so wished to.

"Arcadia," the man in black said. "Where is she?"

"I, ah, I don't know," William began, swallowing.

"See, that's not a very cooperative answer," the man in black said. "I'm sensing that you just aren't a very cooperative person." The pistol slid up, aiming at William's head. "And I hate uncooperative people."

"I'm very cooperative!" William squeaked. "I'm the most cooperative person you'll ever meet!"

"Good to know. Arcadia. Where is she?"

"I don't know!"

There was a terrible bang.

The pistol flew from the assassin's grip, knocked aside by a bullet. Miss Primrose stood at William's doorway, a smoldering pistol held in one hand; hooked over the crook of her arm was William's umbrella.

The assassin looked from his empty hand to Miss Primrose.

"Nice shot."

"I came to return your umbrella, Mr. Daffodil," Miss Primrose said. "You seem to have forgotten it. I assume that this gentleman is not a friend of yours."

"No," William said, scrambling to his feet and making his way towards her. "He most certainly isn't, Miss Primrose. He seems to be after Miss Snips."

"Is that so. I wonder why?"

The assassin smiled. "Old friend. Met her back in boarding school. Just want to share a cup of tea with her, talk about old times. That sort of thing."

"Really, now," Miss Primrose said.

The assassin was fast.
Bloody
fast, William realized; in an instant, he was moving. Miss Primrose squeezed off a second shot, but by then the assassin was halfway across the room and drawing another pistol. William snagged the umbrella out from under Miss Primrose's arm and threw it open, hurling it in front of them both.

Both of the assassin's shots glanced off the umbrella's reinforced iron canopy; William edged back with Miss Primrose towards the doorway.

"Not bad," the assassin lazily remarked. He slipped to their side like a grease-slathered peel, flanking them both; at once, he produced a wickedly hooked knife and brought it down to for a blow meant to hook straight into William’s heart.

The blade made a 'clang'.

"Clang?" The assassin said, confused. "Meat doesn't cl—"

William snapped the umbrella shut and swung it around like a sledge-hammer, meeting the assassin’s chest. There was a loud snapping sound as the man in black was catapulted to the far wall, tumbling over the shattered remnants of the piano. William quickly opened his umbrella back up and held it in front of a perplexed Miss Primrose, urging her out the exit.

As they reached it, a small glass sphere rolled toward them.

The device had several chemical mixtures inside of it, all separated by a thin wafer of metal with an attached pin; the assassin had already withdrawn the pin several moments ago, allowing the chemicals to mix in a volatile rainbow of colors.

"Oh, fiddlesticks," Miss Primrose said. She seized William's arm and jerked the umbrella down to aim at the sphere. It shattered with great violence, spraying hot glass in every direction

—William felt a bit of it catch his ankle as the fire-retardant umbrella did its best to hold back the ferocity of the blast. They were both thrown back several feet, sending them sprawling on their backs.

The umbrella clattered to the floor. William struggled to get to his feet.

And found himself staring down the barrel of the assassin's pistol.

~*~

~*~

Mr. Eddington awoke to the sound of a gentle sigh, followed by the clink and clatter of chains. He was jerked back into the air, left dangling over the now-inert calculation engine; he struggled to make out the shape of the approaching silhouette that now stood on the catwalk before him.

"Oh, thank goodness," he said.

"Hello, Mr. Eddington," said the jackal.

"What a terrible affair this has been," Mr. Eddington began.

"I'm afraid that Miss Snips has managed to figure out quite a bit of our little plot on her own."

"Not all of it, I pray?"

"No, no, not all of it," Mr. Eddington readily agreed. "I left out the crucial bits, or at least as much of it as I could. She thinks
I'm
Professor Hemlock—ha! But she knows that I'm responsible for inputting your bank exploits, at least," he said, shivering. "And she threatened to kill me!"

"Is she aware of our plot to bring the banks crashing down?"

"No, no, not at all," he said. "She thinks that they're just harmless pranks—she's yet to realize our plan to make my engine the
only
engine in all of Aberwick. Now, if you wouldn't mind, my ankles are aching quite a bit and—oh. Oh, dear," Mr. Eddington said, growing quite pale. "Oh my."

"Is something amiss?"

"This is the part where you murder me, isn't it? Tying up loose ends and that sort of nonsense. That's how these things work, isn't it?"

"As perceptive as always, Mr. Eddington," said the jackal.

"My mother was right," Mr. Eddington replied with a sigh.

"I should have been a professional hit man."

A gunshot rang out in the basement of the Steamwork.

~*~

It was growing rather late before Snips returned back to Detective Watts’ home; she steeled herself for the sound verbal thrashing she'd get at the hands of Miss Primrose. But when she arrived, all thoughts of reluctance evaporated.

"What happened?" Snips asked.

Miss Primrose sat on one of the many chairs in the smoking lounge, grimacing as Mr. Watts finished bandaging her forehead.

Soot stains marred her dress, and her left arm looked as if it had suffered some manner of injury.

"Miss Snips," she said, glaring beneath the wrap. "You are tardy."

"Yeah, I had to suspend a guy over a calculating engine.

What's going on?"

"An assassin," Detective Watts said, frowning as he snipped the last of the bandages with a pair of scissors.

"One who was apparently sent for you," Miss Primrose added.

Snips blinked. "Well, you're all right, obviously. I assume —"

"Mr. Daffodil is missing," Miss Primrose added.

Snips went as silent as stone.

At that very moment, there was a loud knocking at the (currently collapsed) front door.

Everyone turned their attention to the corridor that lead to the lobby; crouching down over the collapsed doorway was a man in a ridiculous red suit with gold trimming and a leather satchel attached to his side. He looked like he ought to be at the head of a parade, spinning a baton while it was lit on fire.

"Ahem," he said. "Are you—let's see here." He fished a card out of his satchel, reading it carefully. "Are you Miss Arcadia Snips?"

Snips frowned. "Yes."

The man reached deeper into his satchel. Snips, Miss Primrose, and Jacob watched with amazement as he drew out a fez with a gold tassle. As the three of them looked on in silent shock, he put it atop of his head, unfolded a bit of paper, and started to dance and sing:

"Dear Arcadia Snips, the gentleman is in my grips. I'll kill him quite soon, unless you prove to be a loon—and meet at the steepest greet in the Heap."

"Singing telegram," Snips said, grimacing. "We're dealing with a real sociopath here."

"Sounds like a trap," Detective Watts said.

"Oh, it's not a trap, he just wants me to come over for crumpets. Of course it's a trap, you silly git! He's not even bothering to disguise it. I'd have to be a loon to show up, he even said it!"

"So, are you going to?"

Snips sighed. "Of course."

"Very good," Watts said. "I'll get my coat, and we'll—"

"The Heap is dangerous. I'll move faster there if I'm by myself," Snips said.

Detective Watts looked crestfallen. "I see. Well, at the very least," he continued, picking up William’s charred umbrella.

"Could you return this to the poor lad?"

"Of course." Snips took the umbrella, looked at it cross-eyed, then shoved it through her belt hoop as if it were a sword.

"Don't worry. I'll get him back in a jiffy." Snips turned toward the path, but was suddenly blocked by a stern-faced Miss Primrose.

"Right, then," she said. "How shall we arrive?"

"Oh, no," Snips responded, scowling. "You're
definitely
not going."

"I’m afraid I am, Miss Snips. Not only is this my investigation, but seeing William safely home was my responsibility. He was abducted beneath my very nose, as I watched, helpless to do anything—"

"Oh, hush up," Snips said. "This isn’t some visit to the local Lord and Lady’s dance hall for a fancy cup of tea. We’re heading to the Heap, lady. It’s the most dangerous place in the entire city."

"I am aware, Miss Snips," she said. "And I am going.

William was my responsibility," she added, her voice tense. "I lost him."

Snips and Miss Primrose gave each other hard, long stares.

For a moment, the women seemed ready to lock horns; it was Snips who finally relented.

"Fine. But you do as I say, all right? This is your investigation, but the Heap is out of your league," Snips told her.

"It’s a nasty sort of place, full of nasty sort of people.
My
sort of people."

Grimly, Miss Primrose nodded.