Gideon Smith and the Brass Dragon (11 page)

Bent shook his head and reached for another bread roll. With his other hand he dug into one of the seemingly endless, bottomless pockets in his shabby raincoat and withdrew his notebook.

Rowena chewed her toast thoughtfully and kept her eyes on Gideon across the table from her. She said quietly, “Are you all right?”

He glanced up, suddenly aware of her speaking to him. “What? Sorry…? Yes, yes, I'm fine.”

“Gideon, like I told you last night, I know what it's like, the first time you kill a man in cold blood. It's not as it is in the penny dreadfuls. It's not
clean
.”

“No,” he said slowly, the image of that last ninja refusing to fade from his mind's eye. He remembered the narrow eyes that slowly widened as Gideon's intent became apparent, the color draining from the man's skin just before he fired, the mess that exploded over Edward Lyle's shoulder as Gideon's bullet slammed home in the ninja's forehead. “No, not
clean
.”

He gave Rowena a reassuring smile as Bent thrust his notepad under Gideon's nose. “What do you make of this, then?”

The journalist had sketched a series of interconnecting lines on the page.

“This was the tattoo on that Japanese feller's neck, the first one you shot,” said Bent thoughtfully. “Ring any bells for you?”

Gideon shook his head. Bent said, “Looks familiar to me, but I can't quite place it.” He flipped the notebook shut and pointed at Gideon's barely touched plate of ham and eggs. “You not eating that? Don't mind if I help myself, do you? We're supposed to be meeting Lyle in ten minutes.”

*   *   *

Governor Lyle's office had expansive views of the Albert Gardens, and in the sunshine of the morning they looked magnificent against the skyline of Manhattan, rising from a sea of smog just beyond the tree line. Lyle had a fresh bandage on his neck, but otherwise looked none the worse for his tribulations the previous evening. He had with him a thin, rangy man in faded denim trousers, a red shirt, and a leather waistcoat. The man carried a wide-brimmed hat in his hands, and with his piercing blue eyes set into his weather-beaten face he kept casting glances at Rowena, but he stayed silent. Gideon looked sidelong at Rowena to see if she was returning the interest. But Lyle was already stepping around his wide desk, shaking Gideon's hand warmly.

“Mr. Smith. I hope you slept well after last night's excitement.”

Gideon shrugged. In truth, he hadn't slept well at all, despite the comfortable bed in the west wing of the Governor's Residence. Killing those three men must have affected him more than he had realized. Perhaps he wasn't cut out to be the Hero of the Empire after all.

Bent picked up a small, framed photograph from the desk: a smiling, pretty woman with a small, serious-faced boy on her knee.

“This your wife and kid, Lyle? She's a looker, and the kid takes after her, thank effing Christ.” Bent replaced the frame. “Did the rumpus last night not wake 'em?”

Gideon saw the slightest look pass between Lyle and the stranger before the governor said, “Don't you be worrying yourself about my family, Mr. Bent. I'd have thought you'd be wanting to get on with your mission as soon as possible.” Lyle picked up a sheaf of papers from his desk. “Here's what we know, and what we told Whitehall two weeks ago.” Gideon took the papers from him. Lyle said, “In essence, we have a garrison located on the Mason-Dixon Wall perhaps fifty miles northeast of San Antonio. A month ago they filed a report saying that there had been unusual activity in the air above Steamtown. More than one of the men reported seeing what they described as some kind of winged serpent, or dragon, in the skies.”

“A month ago?” Gideon frowned. “Why weren't we told immediately?”

Lyle smiled apologetically. “For one thing, we didn't even know anyone had a missing dragon they were looking for. No one saw fit to tell us to be on the lookout for one. For another … Mr. Smith, you must understand … these soldiers, they're away from home for long periods, and it's a lonely life manning the garrisons. San Antonio's just a short ride away, with its saloons and cathouses—excuse me, Miss Fanshawe—but of course it's off-limits. They get a little … stir-crazy. Besides, we thought if there was something unusual in the air, it was more than likely some outlandish machine or experiment of Thaddeus Pinch's.”

“Thaddeus Pinch?”

“It's all in my report, Mr. Smith. But Thaddeus Pinch is a lunatic. His father was the former British Governor of San Antonio, until he decided he wanted to run things himself instead of reporting back to London. He was crazy when he died, and he passed the governorship on to his son, like it was some kind of hereditary title. If anything, the son is even crazier than the father. Now Pinch likes folks to call him the King of Steamtown. He has all manner of madcap schemes in his head. And some of the best scientists in America are either in his pay or under lock and key, unfortunately. Pinch has a lot of history with Louis Cockayne. If Cockayne sells your dragon to anyone, Mr. Smith, it's more than likely going to be Thaddeus Pinch.”

“Sell the dragon…?” said Gideon. It hadn't occurred to him to wonder why, exactly, Cockayne had stolen Apep. If it was for base profit, then Maria must have been part of the deal. Gideon suddenly felt sick to his stomach. “We need to get down there immediately. Rowena, how long will it take us in the
Skylady III
?
”

But Lyle held up his hands. “Whoa, Mr. Smith. I'm very much afraid it isn't going to be anywhere like as easy as that. For one thing, no dirigibles fly over Steamtown. Pinch has an arsenal of steam-cannons there that the Fleet Air Arm would kill for. He's brought all kinds of cargo 'stats down—from here, from New Spain, from the Meiji. Passenger 'stats, too; survivors ended up in the slave markets. Now, nobody risks flying within a hundred miles of San Antonio.” Lyle smiled ingratiatingly at Rowena. “Secondly—and I hope Miss Fanshawe forgives me here—but Steamtown is no sort of place for a fine-looking lady.”

“I can look after myself,” said Rowena, but Gideon shot her a raised eyebrow. She didn't sound convinced.

“Rowena?”

She sighed. “I've heard plenty of tales of Steamtown, Gideon. Women there … they're either whores or wives. Which basically amounts to the same thing in San Antonio, except one you get paid for and one you don't.”

The stranger rolled up the brim of his hat and said in a thick accent, “Hope you don't mind me saying, Miss, but a handsome woman like you … I shouldn't like to think what might happen in Steamtown.”

Gideon felt his cheeks burning. “I can look after her,” he said.

The stranger suppressed a smile. “You might be able to shoot three Japs in a garden, Mr. Smith, but if you get blown out of the sky over Texas, you sure you're going to hold Pinch's army off Miss Fanshawe with that itty-bitty peashooter I heard you're packing?”

“I am
here,
” said Rowena, “when you've both quite finished talking about me as though I'm a virgin locked in a tower.”

The man held up his hands in apology, and Lyle said, “Forgive me, I should have introduced you all earlier. Mr. Smith, Miss Fanshawe, Mr. Bent, this is Jebediah Hart.”

He bowed. “My friends call me Jeb.”

“Nice to meet you, Jeb,” said Bent cheerfully.

“Why exactly is
Mr. Hart
here?” asked Gideon, less so.

Lyle grinned. “Jeb knows Texas like the back of his hand. Hell, Jeb knows everywhere like the back of his hand. If anyone can get you into Steamtown, it's him.”

Jeb sat on the corner of Lyle's desk. “There's a military transport dirigible making a scheduled supply drop at the Texas garrison, today. Pinch will be expecting it; he knows the timetable of every official 'stat service around his territory. He won't touch it, of course; bringing down a military 'stat is more trouble than even a crazy old bastard like Thaddeus Pinch can handle.”

“If this Pinch is such a pain in the effing arse, why don't you just go and kick his backside for him?” said Bent.

Lyle shrugged. “Because Pinch and the other Texan warlords have officially seceded from British America. If we clear them out—as much as we'd love to—that's an act of war. We can't be sure that they're not cozying up with the Spaniards or even the Japs. And unless London is going to finance a war, Mr. Bent, then I'm certainly not in a position to go poking a hornet's nest.”

“So you're going to help us just walk into this Steamtown, Mr. Hart?” said Gideon.

Jeb smirked. “Walking in won't be a problem, Mr. Smith. It's in the getting out you might need some help.”

“I've already prepared some letters of authority so you can get whatever help you need from the garrison … short of an actual escort into San Antonio, of course,” said Lyle. “Miss Fanshawe, you're more than welcome to stay here at the Governor's Residence as long as you wish.”

Rowena nodded tightly. Gideon could tell she was still smarting over being told to stay out of Steamtown, even though she seemed to accept that going there was a bad idea. “Thank you, Governor. I would like to be here in case Gideon and Mr. Bent need any assistance.”

“I won't stop you, Rowena,” said Gideon quietly. “You can do exactly what you wish.”

She sighed. “The governor's right, Gideon. I should perhaps stay on alert here in New York, ready to attend should I be required.”

He thought again of Rowena's embrace in the gardens last night, the gladness he had felt at her relief and concern. She was a good friend, Rowena Fanshawe, a vital ally. He glanced at her as she looked out the wide window. He felt somewhat disappointed that she wasn't coming with them, though he understood the dangers she would be facing if she did. He would miss her bravery and her strong right arm, he told himself. That was it. He would miss her bravery.

*   *   *

While Lyle sorted the paperwork into order, Jeb nodded at Gideon. “Let's see this gun of yours, Mr. Smith. I like to know what kind of firepower I'm taking into Texas.”

Gideon withdrew the Webley Bulldog and handed it to him. Jeb grinned, showing his missing teeth, and pulled from his holster his own gun, holding it up to overshadow the Bulldog.

“Colt Buntline Special,” said Jeb, winking at Rowena in a manner that Gideon thought was most inappropriate. “Twelve-inch barrel.”

Bent sighed and began to unbutton his trousers. He reached inside and pulled out his own weapon, stock first, from his trouser leg.

“Winchester Model 1886,” he said, slapping it on the desk with a dull clang, startling Lyle into looking up. Rowena snickered to herself. She had seen Bent sliding the gun down his shapeless trousers outside the office. “Now, if this effing contest is well and truly won, I wanted to pick our new friend Jeb's brain about something he said earlier. As I understand it, this San Antonio's in the arse-end of nowhere. I take it that when you said we'd be
walking in,
it was a figure of speech?”

Jeb put his hat on his head. “That it was, Mr. Bent. We'll be riding in.”

Bent's jaw dropped. “Not on effing horses?”

“It's the only way to travel, out west.”

Bent sighed heavily. “Yee-effing-hah,” he said, without very much conviction at all.

*   *   *

New York to the Texas garrison was only half the distance of London to Manhattan, and it was nightfall when the gray military 'stat touched down on the dusty airfield set out beside a stone-built fort lit by oil lamps. Even in the dark it was hot, the warm breeze carrying the unfamiliar sounds of insects and distant howls.

“Why is everywhere we go so effing hot?” complained Bent as they disembarked. The military 'stat had been cramped and uncomfortable with no real passenger cabin. They'd sat amid boxes of supplies and bags of mail for the frontier ranches, Bent feeling every swing and dip of the dirigible. “Can't our next adventure be at the effing North Pole or something?”

Gideon could feel the sweat running down his back. Jeb had snoozed practically the whole journey, and alit from the 'stat looking as fresh as he had when he'd climbed aboard. Gideon felt crumpled and aching and grumpy.

“What's with him?” asked Jeb. “All the
effing
this,
effing
that?”

“Mr. Bent met with an unfortunate accident,” said Gideon, stretching in the night as a team of blue-uniformed soldiers emerged from the fort to unload the 'stat. “He was hit on the head by a falling pyramid block. Now he can't say … a certain word.”

“Effing effrontery, is what it is,” said Bent.

Jeb grinned. “Let's see if eight hours on horseback can't improve your vocabulary, Mr. Bent.”

*   *   *

The early dawn brought more heat, and after helping himself to coffee in the cool of the mess hall, ignoring the curious stares of the fifty or so cavalry officers enjoying breakfast, Gideon stepped outside to find Bent hugging the narrowing shadows in the lee of the fort. Gideon had dressed in a white shirt and tight fawn trousers shoved into black boots. Bent, it seemed, was wearing the same suit he had been in since they'd left London—the waistcoat displaying the vast bulge of his belly, the jacket and trousers stained and shapeless. It was a new suit, Gideon knew, purchased just a couple of weeks before. “It's not the suit that's creased, it's my body.” Bent had laughed.