Gideon Smith and the Brass Dragon (27 page)

“I'm going to turn in as well,” said Cockayne. Bent farted, sighed, and departed. “Though not in the same room as him. Wake me if there's any trouble. Smith, I suggest you get some sleep, too.”

“I'll go and see if Rowena needs any help,” said Gideon as Cockayne went to find a quiet room. He looked at Inez. “Thank you. For taking care of Maria.”

“We haven't done a very good job,” she said.

He smiled. “Cockayne is right. We'll find her when Chantico comes back. I'm sorry if I hurt you before.”

Inez said, “This Maria, she is your … you are…?”

Gideon nodded. “I know. It's difficult to understand.”

She shook her head. “I know what it is like to love someone different from yourself.” She smiled. “Though maybe not
so
different.”

“You are going to rest, too?”

“No,” she said tightly. “I have just remembered something I have to do.”

*   *   *

Inez felt like crying tears of anger.
Chantico, you
idiot! She stared at the note in his feathery scrawl.
Lo siento
. Presumably he had been too cowardly or too
idiotic
to write what he really meant. Sorry for stealing the clockwork girl. She stalked up and down the room she had assigned to them—to them! He was going to have to swim a sea of horseshit if he wanted to share her bed again!—and kicked at her saddlebags on the cold stone floor. The question was, where had he taken her—where had he taken Maria? She remembered his look of guilt and reproach when the Nameless had mentioned the
place of power
near the Yaqui camp. Why had Chantico never mentioned that? Could he have taken Maria there? If so, presumably he had done this in secret. The Nameless would hardly abet Chantico in taking Maria away when he had expressly said that they should keep her safe here. Perhaps the Nameless somehow knew, in his grim prairie spirit way, that someone would come looking for Maria. She kicked the saddlebag again, and the rapier she had taken from the casa skittered along the floor.

Inez had never been to the Yaqui settlement, but she knew it was just over the far side of the canyon, beyond the hills. Not far at all. She rummaged in the saddlebag and pulled out Chantico's black shirt and trousers, the silly mask. Back in Uvalde … the people, they had truly thought she was El Chupacabras. The Texans had been scared of her, and the townsfolk had been inspired. Perhaps … she swiftly unbuttoned her blouse. Perhaps El Chupacabras would ride again, put right whatever idiocy Chantico was
lo siento
for. But no. Not El Chupacabras. El Chupacabras had gone. Like Sergio de la Garcia. Like Chantico. Like the Nameless. Men went away, or were weak, or idiotic, or all three.

She pulled on the black shirt, buttoned up the trousers, and fastened the cowl tight around her head. No, not El Chupacabras at all. She took up the rapier, hefted it in her gloved hand.

La Chupacabras!

*   *   *

“Can you fix it?” asked Gideon.

Rowena laughed lightly. “I love the faith you have in people, Gideon. But yes, I think I can. The gauge is showing that there is indeed helium down that mine. Whoever started digging for coal must have fractured the rock and released it.” She looked out across the prairie. “This whole landscape could be full of it, just below the surface. Anyway, without boring you, there's a long, laborious process of liquefaction to extract it and turn it into usable lifting gas, and this”—she patted the large, square device on wheels, as big as a steam-cab with twice as many pipes, pistons, and valves across its back—“is going to do the job. In the meantime, I'm going to get the balloon patched up. Are you any good with a needle and thread?”

But Gideon was looking into the distance, where a wide dust cloud was approaching. “What now?” he said.

Rowena climbed on top of the liquefaction engine and peered through a brass extendable telescope. “Don't panic,” she said. “It's our friend with the cattle.”

Gideon glanced back at the house. “Have you spoken to those people who were bound for Steamtown? What do they want to do?”

“Unsurprisingly, not many of them are keen to return to New York. They've been betrayed by whichever company or organization was rounding up immigrants and packing them off to trade for coal. And, by extension, they've been betrayed by the British government itself.”

“Do you think they'll stay here?” he wondered. “The rancher talked about a new community.…”

Ahead of the approaching herd, two figures on horseback emerged from the swirling cloud. Oswald P. Ackroyd and his nephew, their chaps yellow with trail dust, hailed Gideon and brought their horses to a halt near the
Skylady III.

“Howdy, Mr. Smith. You beat us here, then?”

Gideon nodded at the 'stat. “Only just.”

Ackroyd let himself down from his horse and stretched, looking around. “The Nameless was right. This is a nice spot. And that's good grazing land over yonder.” He frowned at the stone building, at the people sitting around in the morning sun. “These folks all live here? We're gonna need a bigger homestead. Good thing Albert's handy with a saw and hammer.”

Gideon followed his gaze and frowned. There was a figure all in black creeping away from the house, leading by the reins the only horse there—Inez's. While Rowena pointed out the creek and the arable land to Ackroyd, Gideon picked up her telescope and put it to his eye, taking a moment to focus on the figure—which, it turned out, was masked as well. Even so, that fan of black hair, the voluptuous shape … it could only be Inez herself. But where was she going, and why was she dressed so outlandishly?

Gideon turned to Ackroyd. “A fine horse you have.”

Ackroyd patted the mare. “Strong as an ox, this one. She could do that journey twice over without breaking a sweat, there and back.”

Gideon smiled. “In that case, do you mind awfully if I borrow her?”

 

20

M
ARIA

++VERNACULAR ASSIMILATION: TRUE++

++HOST BRAIN TO BODY-MASS RATIO 1:40++

++BRAIN: ORGANIC MATERIAL. NONORGANIC MAKEUP: GLASS, COPPER, BRASS, DRIED ANIMAL SKIN++

++AUTOMOTIVE FORCE: MAINSPRING-POWERED MECHANISM ACHIEVING VARIOUS LEVELS OF TORQUE. COLLOQUIAL: CLOCKWORK++

++FUSION OF BRAIN/CLOCKWORK COMPONENTS TO ACHIEVE INDEPENDENT AUTOMOTIVE FORCE: 96 PERCENT COMPLETE. HOST REMAINS IN STASIS++

++READYING SIGNAL++

++DOPAMINE LEVELS: INSUFFICIENT++

++SEROTONIN LEVELS: INSUFFICIENT++

++OXYTOCIN LEVELS: INSUFFICIENT++

++SIGNAL TRANSMISSION: FALSE++

++AWAITING FURTHER DEVELOPMENTS++

Chantico hung back in the dancing shadows cast on the limestone walls by the torches, the bag containing the diverse and mysterious treasures that had been found with the clockwork girl hanging from his hand. He had made a terrible, terrible mistake.

Inez was going to be furious with him.

He had been to the abandoned mine at dawn and manhandled the clockwork girl—so heavy!—on to the back of his horse. The Old Man had been delighted with his work, but Chantico felt sick to his stomach. Still … what was a bunch of cogs and gears, no matter how much like a living woman it looked, when balanced against the life of his beloved?

He hoped Inez would see it that way, too.

The clockwork woman was stretched out on the altar, the Old Man standing at her head, presiding over the gathering. There were more people than he had ever seen in the cave, perhaps thirty. Word had spread like wildfire that the Old Man was going to do something special, that he was going to bring Quetzalcoatl to save the Yaqui people.

So why did Chantico feel so bad?

The Old Man was swaying, his eyelids fluttering, his gnarled hands on either side of the clockwork girl's head. In the basin below, the gathering swayed along with him. Someone was banging a drum in rhythm with Chantico's pounding heart, and the people began to hum, low and steady, like an approaching swarm of insects. Chantico's blood roared in his ears, and he redoubled his grip on the bag.

The drumming stopped.

The Old Man opened his eyes.

He licked his lips and rasped, “Life is because of the gods; with their sacrifice they gave us life, eh? They produce our sustenance, which nourishes life. In return, we make our own offerings.”

He raised his hands in supplication.

“Quetzalcoatl is a just god and does not demand the spilling of human blood. It was Tezcatlipoca, angered by what he saw as Quetzalcoatl's weakness in this regard, who imprisoned the great feathered serpent in brass and metal and sent him crashing in flames to Earth, eh?”

Chantico frowned; this was new. The Old Man was embellishing the story. Chantico took a step forward, out of the shadows. Despite himself, he was intrigued to see how a thing that was not alive could be sacrificed, and just what effect it would have.

“Thus,” said the Old Man, “a suitable sacrifice must be found. And we have been delivered this mockery of a woman, a thing neither alive nor dead, with which to parlay for Quetzalcoatl's return to grace.”

The Old Man looked around the crowd, their faces hidden in shadow. He put his hands together and steepled his fingers in front of his dry lips. Then he whispered, “Quetzalcoatl appeared to me in a vision last night, eh? I took the fruit of the peyote into myself and asked for guidance in the desert. And guidance came.”

The crowd gasped. Chantico frowned even deeper. Something was terribly, terribly wrong about all of this.

The Old Man nodded vigorously. “Quetzalcoatl told me that his captor is a man who is half human, half machine. They call him Pinch, but he is in truth the earthly visage of Tezcatlipoca himself!”

Several of the Yaqui fell to their knees, moaning.

“But Tezcatlipoca has struck a deal with Quetzalcoatl. He said he would free him if Quetzalcoatl could bring him a wife who was less human than he. Quetzalcoatl asked how this was possible, as he was a prisoner. Tezcatlipoca told him that his worshippers would rise to help the lord of the morning.”

The Old Man held out his arms. “Behold! We have in our hands the key to Quetzalcoatl's liberation! And will the Yaqui not forever be the favored children of the Lord of the Star of the Dawn?”

A roar went up from those in the cavern. Chantico thought his heart might burst, but whether it was from pride or fear he could not really tell.

“We must take the bride to Tezcatlipoca, eh?” declared the Old Man. “Come, now! Let us lift her and carry her off! To Steamtown, to parlay the release of the great god Quetzalcoatl!”

Steamtown? Chantico looked at the others, but their eyes were shining with fervor; they moved forward, reaching for the clockwork girl. Steamtown? They would be slaughtered.

“Stop right there!”

Chantico looked up, across the cave to the tunnel that led to the outside. The crowd fell silent, the flickering flames from the torches casting their orange glow on a black-clad figure, masked and holding a shining rapier high.

“That girl is under the protection of La Chupacabras!”

Oh, Inez
, thought Chantico furiously.
What in the name of the gods are you doing?

*   *   *

Inez Batiste Palomo had never felt so alive. Her heart hammered fit to burst, but it gave wings to her feet. She leaped from the rock to the sloping ground, dancing on her toes, spinning around and bringing her rapier down—
movimiento natural!—
in a fluid slashing motion, causing the surging crowd to halt and fall backward. Every lesson she had learned seemed burned upon her head, so that she barely had to think of an action, and she was already fulfilling it.
Tajo!
She cut in a sweeping movement across the Indians.
Estocada!
She thrust her weapon at the nearest, forcing him back into the natural basin at the center of the torch-lit cave. She twirled almost within the arms of a grasping Indian—
medio de proporcion!
—and pirouetted away, casting around to take in the situation. About thirty Yaqui, in an agitated mood. A stone slab, some kind of altar, on which lay Maria. An incredibly ancient Indian, in faded, stiff robes, his scrawny neck garlanded with strings of beads and leather thongs, glaring at her with shining eyes.

And there, skulking in the shadows like the thief in the night that he was, stood Chantico.

Idiot,
she mouthed at him.

Lo siento,
he mimed back.

She stood straight, breathing hard, and held out her sword arm straight, the rapier extended toward the old man.

“You. Release the girl.”

He raised his head, looking down his crooked nose at her. “It is not a girl, eh? It is a machine.”

He reached into his robes and withdrew a gun. Colt .45, if Inez identified it correctly. Not the usual Yaqui weapon of choice. He smiled and said, “You, on the other hand, are a girl. Young Chantico's Spanish whore, I believe. And you will bleed. It appears Quetzalcoatl will have his sacrifice this day after all.”

*   *   *

Gideon groaned. A cave. Why was it always a cave? He was a child again, on his ill-planned venture into the tunnels that marbled the Lythe Bank near his home of Sandsend, lost in the darkness, feeling the weight of the rock pressing down on him, squeezing the life out of him, until his father, Arthur, had come to get him, carrying him out into the precious sunlit day. He had thought he had conquered his fear when he was forced to enter the underwater passageway that led to the Rhodopis Pyramid in Egypt, spurred on by Louis Cockayne's assertion that his fear was merely a lie. But Gideon knew, deep down, that such a terror could never be truly dispelled, only buried. And the yawning mouth of the cave ahead of him suddenly and clearly excavated his fear once more.