Gideon Smith and the Brass Dragon (22 page)

“He doesn't seem to have Maria, though,” said Gideon. “Unless he's lying. Is he?”

Cockayne shrugged. “Look, maybe I should tell you what happened, from me leaving London to ending up here in Steamtown.”

*   *   *

“A poker up your effing arse?” said Bent. “Hell's teeth. He doesn't eff about, this Pinch geezer, does he?”

“No,” said Cockayne. “He ain't renowned for effing about.” He looked at Gideon and stood up to face him square on. “Look, Smith … Gideon. I don't say this very often, but … I'm sorry. I got it wrong. I shouldn't have done what I did. I guess I was seduced by the idea of the money.”

“You're a pirate, Cockayne. A thief. A kidnapper. I shouldn't expect any better from you.”

Cockayne opened his mouth to say something, but Gideon silenced him with a raised hand and a glint in his eye that the American had never seen before. “But I did trust you, Louis. I thought you were on our side. I thought you were helping us.”

“I was,” said Cockayne quietly. “Swear to God. But something inside me just kind of … snapped, soon as I realized I had Maria and Apep in the palm of my hand, soon as I realized what that apple did, what power I had.”

“And the first thing you think to do when you get something so powerful, so wonderful, so beautiful in your hands? Sell it to the highest bidder.”

Cockayne shrugged. “We all try to be better humans, Smith, but sometimes we can't help but give in to our baser urges. It's what keeps guys like me out of heaven, or nirvana, or whatever the hell you want, I guess. Do you know what I mean, about giving in to your urges?”

Gideon hit him again, sending Cockayne sprawling to the floor. “Yes,” said Gideon with some satisfaction. “That was me giving in to mine.”

*   *   *

Cockayne sat on the bunk, his head tipped back, holding his nose. “Smiff, cad I ast you just how benny tibes you're gonna hid me?”

“That's it, for now,” said Gideon.

Cockayne pinched the bridge of his nose and blew out a glob of blood and snot at Gideon's feet. Sniffing, he said, “That's better.” He glanced at Bent. “They ain't sent Gideon to sense-of-humor school yet, then?”

Bent chortled. Gideon shot him a look. “Whose side are you on?”

“Smith, Smith, we're all on the same side now,” said Cockayne warmly. “You came looking for me, right?”

“We came looking for Maria and Apep,” said Gideon. “You're only useful for telling us where to find them.”

“And as soon as we get out of here I'll take you to where we crashed.” Cockayne nodded enthusiastically. “We can start the search there. So, what's the plan?”

There was a moment of silence. Gideon looked at his hands. Bent began to whistle tunelessly. “Come on, Inkerman will be back soon,” said Cockayne urgently. “What's the plan? You rode into Steamtown, got yourself thrown into the same cell…” He paused. “You did know I was in the pen, right?”

Bent wrinkled his nose.

“Getting yourself arrested wasn't part of the plan?”

Gideon gave the minutest of shrugs.

Cockayne slapped his hand against his forehead, which hurt so much he swore violently, took off his hat, and stamped on it several times. “Jesus shit, Smith! You haven't got a plan at all? Haven't you learned anything?”

“We were sort of playing it by ear.…” said Gideon quietly.

Cockayne picked up his hat and screwed it into a ball, pushing his bruised and battered face into Gideon's. Gideon flinched away. “I'll give you playing by ear … Jesus shit, Smith!” He unrolled his hat and slammed it back onto his head. He began to stalk up and down the cell. “Okay, we're going to have to improvise. What weapons have you got on you?”

Gideon held his hands wide helplessly. He'd had the upper hand, and Louis Cockayne had turned everything on its head, like he always did in those card games. Now Gideon was on the defensive. He said, “Uh, nothing. They frisked us and took it all.”

“And you didn't save anything? You haven't even got a stiletto knife up your ass?”

Gideon winced and Cockayne turned away. “I don't believe it. Not only am I going to die, I'm going to spend my last days with you two.” He looked up at Bent. “I suppose there's no point asking you.”

“Well, actually,” said Bent, unbuttoning his fly, “I did manage to keep a little something back.…”

Cockayne's eyes lit up. “Knife? Gun? Dynamite?”

Bent glanced around conspiratorially and delved into the folds of his trousers, emerging with a small hip flask. “Nicked it from Governor Lyle's drinks cabinet. Spirytus, it said on the label. Polish, I think. Don't know what the eff it is, but it's ninety-six percent proof.” He chuckled. “Should make the long nights fly by.”

Gideon groaned. “Alcohol, Bent? For a minute there I thought you had something useful.”

“Maybe he has,” said Cockayne thoughtfully. “Give that here.”

“Hey,” said Bent as Cockayne snatched the hip flask from his hands. Cockayne flipped the top and sniffed it. “Jesus.” He forced the stopper back in. “Okay, Inkerman's on his way back. Here's what you've got to do.”

*   *   *

Inkerman strolled back into the pen after holding a half-audible exchange with whoever was guarding the cell outside and, surmised Gideon, relieving them of their watch. The fat sheriff—though his office probably had more to do with the privileges it afforded him in this godforsaken place than any innate sense of justice—sauntered into the pen, chewing on a strip of jerky, and regarded them with his ratty little eyes.

“Well, well, well, ain't this cozy,” he said through a mouthful of beef. “Three little piggies. Maybe I'll huff and I'll puff…”

“And maybe I'll blow your head off,” muttered Cockayne. He winked at Gideon, who nudged Bent in the ribs.

The journalist stepped forward, clicking his fingers through the bars. “'Ere, Inkerman. Cockayne says you can be relied on for a light. I'm dying for a ciggie.”

“You got any?” said Inkerman. “I ain't standing you a smoke. And did laughing boy tell you the drill?”

He nodded at Cockayne, who was glaring at him. Bent produced a flat tin of rolled cigarettes and held it through the bars. “Have one of mine, if you like.”

Inkerman grinned and took one, which he slid behind his ear. “Very good of you. I gotta say, you're one helluva more amenable houseguest than Mr. Cockayne.” He paused. “Still gotta insist on the drill, though.”

Bent nodded and stuck a cigarette in his mouth, pushing his face into the space between two bars and holding his hands out as far as they would go behind him. Inkerman struck a match and held it out toward Bent, who maneuvered the end of his cigarette into it and sucked hard. When it was lit, Bent backed off and Inkerman held up the match to Gideon. “You having one?”

Gideon shook his head but said, “I think Cockayne will.”

Cockayne had already pushed his face against the bars, holding his hands out behind him. Inkerman looked at him, then at the match. He let it fall from his fingers, and it burned itself out on the dirt floor.

“Aw, look at that. It was my last match, as well.”

Cockayne said nothing, simply stared impassively through the bars. Inkerman shrugged and dug in his waistcoat pocket for another match. “Cat got your tongue, Cockayne? Aw, you're no fun when you won't get riled.” He struck the match and held it out. “Suit yourself. Your smokes are numbered, anyhow.”

The match hovered around the end of Cockayne's cigarette, Inkerman guffawing as he kept the flickering flame just out of reach. Cockayne raised one eyebrow and grinned back, the cigarette falling from his lips. Then he spat a spray of the colorless spirit Bent had filched from the governor's cabinet, enveloping the match and expanding the flame with a
whump
into a fireball that engulfed Inkerman before he had time to even scream.

“Quick, before he falls backward!” yelled Cockayne, and Gideon, having the longest reach of any of them, stretched through the bars and grabbed hold of Inkerman's belt. The fat sheriff's head was a blackening ball at the center of the yellow flames, and Inkerman was slapping at his face. Gideon grimaced as he pulled Inkerman hard into the bars, and Cockayne hit him once in the face, pulling his fist back and shaking it.

“Goddamn! I don't know what hurts most, the burning in my hand or the burning in my throat. What the hell did you say that stuff was called, Bent?”

“Spirytus,” said Bent, gazing in horrified fascination at Inkerman as he slid down the bars. “Do you think we should put him out?”

“You got the keys?” said Cockayne.

Gideon jangled the bunch he'd extricated from Inkerman's belt. “Bent's right … we should do something.”

“You get the bars open before this whole place goes up,” said Cockayne. Inkerman had flailed backward, spreading the fire to the papers on his desk. Cockayne unbuttoned his fly and Gideon gaped at him.

“Is he getting the old chap out?” asked Bent. “He is! He's going to—”

Cockayne let loose a stream of piss that hit Inkerman in his head and sent clouds of acrid steam rising to mingle with the black smoke filling the pen. Gideon shook his head and fumbled with the keys until he found the right one and the cage doors swung open.

“Wait there,” said Cockayne. “I need to check that the coast is clear.”

He dipped into the smoke and reappeared a moment later. He winked at Gideon and kicked the cage shut, neatly whipping out the bunch of keys. He said, “You never do learn, do you, Smith.”

“You effer!” shouted Bent, rattling the bars. The door was stuck fast.

Gideon glared at him. “Like a dog to its vomit.”

Cockayne grinned. “I'm doing this to prove something, Smith.”

“That you're a bastard?” said Bent.

“No. That you can trust me.” He reached down and unlocked the cage. Behind him, Inkerman moaned. “Just remember, I could have left you in there. But I trust you, Smith, so you gotta trust me.”

“When hell freezes over,” said Gideon, dragging Bent out of the cage. “But for now … come on, let's get out of here.”

“One minute,” said Cockayne. He bent down and retrieved his pearl-handled guns from the shuddering body of Inkerman. Gideon gagged at the smell of roasting flesh. Inkerman's head was a blackened thing running with its own juices. Cockayne whispered, “Told you that you were at the top of my shit-list, Inkerman.” He put the barrel of one gun against the man's head. Even in the smoke-filled pen, Gideon could read his pain-filled eyes.
Do it. Please.

“The old Louis Cockayne was a real bastard who'd leave you to burn,” said Cockayne. “Count yourself lucky I'm a reformed character, and you can thank Gideon Smith for that.”

Gideon turned away as the gun reported with a loud echo. Cockayne emerged from the smoke, his face grim. He held open the door. “Now for the hard part, Smith. We have to get out of Steamtown alive.”

*   *   *

Cockayne led them into the dusty, dark alleys off the main drag, taking them between the clapboard houses and edging along the shadowed verandas on the largely unlit streets into an area that was dominated by single-story whitewashed stone buildings.

“The old Spanish quarter,” whispered Cockayne, holding up his hand as a horse-drawn wagon, a tank of water sloshing on the back, rumbled past in the direction they'd come from.

“Eff to the tour, Cockayne,” gasped Bent, leaning against the wall, a hand on the stitch in his side. “Just get us out of here.”

“I'm trying to,” he said. He looked at Gideon. “I'm going to take us west, thread through some of the coal mines and the slave quarters. They'll be expecting us to be making for the Wall.”

There was shouting from the edge of town where the pen was located, and when he looked back Gideon could see the underside of the black clouds painted a dull orange. Cockayne squinted into the night sky and frowned. “The fire's spreading,” he said. “Should keep them busy for a while.”

Cockayne paused between two buildings, at a wide road that was better lit than any of them would have liked. He held up his hand, glanced around the edge of the dark house in both directions, then led them softly out on to the dust track.

And right into a sudden pool of light that erupted from a dozen strongly focused oil lamps that were abruptly exposed. There were six men on horseback flanking a trio of grumbling crablike vehicles that were spewing steam and coal dust from their exhausts. Their steel-plate armor casings were mounted above a series of wheels covered in what looked to Gideon to be hinged metal belts, creating snug tracks on which the wheels could mount almost any low-lying obstacle and negotiate any terrain. Suddenly he plucked a memory from an old issue of
World Marvels & Wonders,
a Lucian Trigger adventure that he recalled also featured Louis Cockayne … in the theater of lies and half-truths that Gideon now knew the penny blood stories were. That wasn't to say everything in the adventures was false—Lucian Trigger might have embellished the escapades of his lover, Dr. John Reed, for public consumption, but Gideon had to assume that much of it, the menaces included, were based on fact.

Menaces such as these. Gideon sensed Cockayne whipping out his pearl-handled revolvers, hefting their familiar weight now that they were free from Inkerman. Unfortunately, the relief Gideon felt at Cockayne's keen eye beside him was drowned out by the volley of clicks from the rifles held by the men on the horses and clinging to the growling vehicles. Cockayne muttered, “Great. The Bowie Steamcrawlers.”

“No point running, Louis,” rasped a voice from behind the bright lights. It was Thaddeus Pinch. “Might as well just come quietly now.”

“So you can torture me?” shouted Cockayne. “No thanks, Pinch.”