Gideon Smith and the Brass Dragon (6 page)

“We were going to go to the Stokers tomorrow,” said Gideon, eyeing Bent. “I was just about to tell Mr. Bent … Bram has apparently returned alive from Egypt.”

Bent goggled. “Alive? But he was crushed … Countess Bathory said so.”

“I would not visit him in the mornings,” said Walsingham mildly. “Mr. Stoker has become something of a … night owl since his return to London. Besides, you have another mission.”

“But we've only just come back,” protested Bent. “Where are you sending us this time?”

Walsingham looked Gideon in the eye. “America, Mr. Smith. We have had reports of a sighting of what we believe is the brass dragon, Apep.”

Gideon stared at him. “Apep? Then I'm finally going for Maria?”

“Miss Rowena Fanshawe is cleared for takeoff from Highgate at noon,” said Walsingham. “She will take you to New York, where you will meet Governor Edward Lyle and be briefed on what we know so far.”

Gideon swallowed drily. Maria. He was going to rescue Maria. At last.

Walsingham placed his topper on his head. “I shall see myself out. Godspeed, Mr. Smith, Mr. Bent. May you do the Empire proud once more.”

 

5

L
IGHTER
T
HAN
A
IR

The steam-carriage deposited them on the stone apron outside the wooden, single-story building that was the headquarters of Fanshawe Aeronautical Endeavors just in time to see Rowena, her face smeared with black grease and carrying a foot-long wrench in her hand, chasing two boys in gray rags from the front door.

“And don't come back!” yelled Rowena, spotting Gideon and Bent unloading their luggage from the steam-cab and waving at them. She abandoned the chase and the two boys disappeared behind the piles of rusting gear wheels, cogs, and piston parts that were steadily growing beside Rowena's business premises.

“Autograph hunters?” asked Gideon, dropping his leather bag to embrace Rowena.

Bent paid the steam-driver, hovering a penny over his outstretched palm before changing his mind and exchanging it for a ha'penny. He ignored the man's baleful glare and said, “Knicker-nickers, more like. Trying to steal a pair of the Belle of the Airways' panties.”

“It's good to see you, too, Aloysius,” said Rowena, stretching her arms around his broad shoulders. She extracted herself from his pungent hug and cast a thumb back at the boundary fence of the Highgate Aerodrome, where the boys had fled. “Actually, they're after brass goggles. They've become quite the fashion accessory at high-class parties, by all accounts. These urchins can get a good price for the genuine article in some of the costume shops in Covent Garden.”

“Who'd have thought?” said Bent, shaking his head. “I swear, since I've been hanging around with Smith here I've completely lost touch with what's going on in high society. I've more idea what they're wearing in Outer Mongolia than in Mayfair.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Brass goggles, eh?”

Gideon shielded his eyes from the late summer sunlight and looked up at the
Skylady III,
tethered by steel cables as thick as his wrist to huge iron rings set into the stone-flagged apron. The first time he had seen the vast dirigible, it had been under the command of Louis Cockayne. He said, “She looks grand, Rowena.”

Bent turned to appraise the dirigible, patting the pockets of his shapeless brown overcoat for his tobacco. “Don't rightly know if I should be even thinking about stepping an effing foot on that thing,” he said sourly. “Not after that damn Louis Cockayne threatened to throw me off it. And then stole poor old Maria off Smith here.”

“She was the
Yellow Rose
then,” said Rowena, wiping the grease from her hands on a square of dirty cloth. “She's a whole different 'stat now, Aloysius. She's the
Skylady III
. That makes her mine, not Cockayne's. And you'll come to no harm under my command.”

“As I recall, the
Skylady II
was blown to bits high above the Mediterranean,” said Bent mildly. “Remind me what happened to the first one?”

“Shredded on the north face of the Eiger.” Rowena smiled and ran a hand through her short, auburn hair. “Gideon, we've got an ascent slot at midday. She's wound and loaded; I just need to take a bath and get a few papers in order before we depart for New York. Which reminds me, Gideon … Walsingham left something for you.”

“More effing problems, no doubt,” said Bent.

“You don't have much faith in Mr. Walsingham,” said Gideon as Rowena walked toward the offices. “He is the representative of the Crown, after all.”

“Which is precisely why I don't trust him,” said Bent. “Gideon … I've been around the block too many times. I know what they're capable of. Christ, you saw what happened to poor old Annie Crook.”

But Gideon hadn't seen what had happened to Annie Crook—no one had, save for Mr. Walsingham and his most trusted advisers. Annie Crook had fallen in love with the wrong man, and Walsingham had been called in—or had taken it upon himself—to sort out the mess on behalf of his employer, the British Crown. Gideon didn't like to think about what they knew had happened—Annie Crook, a common shopgirl known to dabble in prostitution had been “seen to,” her body dumped in the mud on the banks of the Thames, her brain transferred to Professor Hermann Einstein where the scientist implanted it into his automaton, Maria.

So yes, they knew what had happened to Annie Crook. And Mr. Walsingham would stop at nothing to protect the British Empire. But that was past history, and there was nothing Gideon could do about that. He had been tasked with a job by Queen Victoria herself, and if that meant taking orders from Walsingham …

“You must learn to trust more, Aloysius,” said Gideon. “They pay our wages, after all.”

“And you must learn to trust
less,
Gideon.” Bent tapped the side of his nose. “They pay us, but they don't own us. Now, where did I put me pipe…?”

Gideon left the other man trying to strike a match in the face of the crosswinds that tore across the wide apron of the aerodrome, following Rowena into the shadows of her offices. The gift of the former
Yellow Rose
from Cockayne and the recent fame from being honored by Queen Victoria herself for her part in defeating the crazed John Reed's plot to raze London had, by Rowena's own admission, done wonders for her business. But that had evidently not brought with it any improved organization skills. The office of Fanshawe Aeronautical Endeavors was piled high with yellowing documents, abandoned mugs of tea that had started to nurture cultures of blossoming blue mold, sections of clockwork, and steam-powered devices in various stages of being repaired or stripped down. One wall was dominated by a huge map of the world, into which colored pins had been stuck and connected with crisscrossing lengths of woolen yarn. Mandates, schedules, and handwritten notes were tacked up and down the sides of the massive chart.

“You are certain Mr. Walsingham trusted you with highly classified documents?” asked Gideon doubtfully, looking around for a space to sit down.

He ducked as Rowena aimed a lump of steel wool at his head. “Saucy. Admittedly, he did make me lock it in the safe first.”

She yawned and stretched, the movement pulling apart the front of the oily brown overalls she wore. Gideon averted his eyes. Rowena Fanshawe was a beautiful young woman, and she had already made it quite clear she would … well. It had been a swift education for Gideon Smith, the fisherman from the wilds of the North Yorkshire coast who had been thrust center stage in the dramas he had always dreamed of experiencing. And while certain aspects of his new life—rampaging dinosaurs, international travel, the handling of heavy-duty weaponry—came quickly to him, affairs of the heart seemed to take longer to accommodate. The heart, and organs farther south. Bent had voiced on more than one occasion the opinion that Gideon and Rowena were a match made in heaven, and that were he ten, twenty, or thirty years younger (depending on the severity of his hangover when he made the observation) he would certainly make a go of it with the aerostat pilot himself.

But always, always his thoughts came back to Maria. Gideon cast his eyes to his feet, and Rowena, as though reading his mind, self-consciously pulled the gaping buttons of her overalls together. “Sorry,” she said, stifling another yawn. “I only got back from Nepal two days ago, and Walsingham was waiting on my doorstep.”

“You're sure you'll be all right to take us to New York?” asked Gideon.

Rowena nodded. “A quick bath and I'll be right as rain,” she said. “It's the best part of two days to America, a day and a half if we've got the weather, but this 'stat practically flies herself; I can rest once we're aloft.”

She began to haul aside a stack of hydraulic pistons leaning against the wall, revealing the door of a safe. She tapped a dirty fingernail on her lip for a moment, then snapped her fingers and began to spin the twin dials. Gideon held his breath then exhaled as the door clicked open, and she withdrew a thin black leather document folder, sealed with wax, and handed it to him.

Gideon examined the seal; it was imprinted with a letter “W” surrounded by thorny vines. Walsingham's mark, all right.

“Our orders, no doubt,” said Rowena. She paused then added, “Gideon? The lock's broken on the bathroom door. Do you think you might…?”

He smiled. “I'll stay here, make sure no one disturbs you.”

Rowena smiled back as he stared thoughtfully at the seal on the document folder, then she let herself quietly into the bathroom, pulling the wooden door closed behind her.

“For eff's sake.”

Gideon looked up. Bent was standing in the doorway, dumping his pipe ashes on the doorstep, the
Skylady III
bobbing behind him.

“What?” asked Gideon.

Bent shook his head. “You really are an effing idiot, aren't you? Carpe diem, Gideon.”

“What does that mean?”

“Seize the day, lad. Carpe di-effing-em.”

*   *   *

The lock on the bathroom door wasn't broken, of course, and Rowena chided herself even as she left it open and swiftly disrobed in the small, drafty room. The boiler above the bath shuddered and shook as she filled the bath with steaming water. She knew Gideon wouldn't follow her into the bathroom, though God knew she couldn't have telegraphed her invitation more obviously had a parade of music hall singers delivered it to Gideon in the popular tunes of the day. Easing herself into the hot water, Rowena shook her head, both amused and slightly saddened. She was very naughty, trying to tempt Gideon like that. He was a good man.

Too good for her, perhaps. Too honest and true, at any rate. It had been a month now, and still he pined for Maria, that funny little clockwork thing.
Now, now, Rowena, don't be so tart,
she thought as she soaped her legs. She had nothing against Maria, though she barely knew the automaton. Like any aerostat pilot, she'd seen more things than she could rightly explain in this strange old world. Even a flesh-and-blood boy in love with a mechanical girl lost its novelty after a while.

Still … Rowena Fanshawe had known many men, it was true, and would doubtless know many more. But as she held her breath and her eyes shut tight and submerged herself in the hot water, she wondered how fine a thing it would be, to love and be loved by a man like Gideon Smith.

*   *   *

From the bridge at the fore of the gondola slung beneath the huge balloon of the
Skylady III,
a freshly bathed Rowena Fanshawe touched two fingers to her forehead to acknowledge the aerodrome employee in bright orange overalls who waved two yellow flags at her, then banged on the wide panoramic window at the tether-monkeys to whom she paid a few pennies in the way of retainer, who swiftly unclipped the steel cables that held the 'stat earthbound. The
Skylady III
lurched and began to rise. They were bound for America.

Bent gripped the console, his knuckles whitening as they ascended. “Tell me again how this big effing thing stays in the air,” he said, his voice tremulous.

Rowena shrugged. “Helium.”

“I must have missed that science lesson at school. What, exactly, is helium?”

“It's a gas, Aloysius. A lifting gas. An entirely natural resource. It powers the Empire as much as coal; it gives us the mastery of the air. It's lighter than air, Aloysius. They're finding new deposits all the time, but it's still relatively scarce, which is why aerostats are the preserve of the richer nations.”

Bent let loose a long fart. “Oh, God,” he said. “Bit of natural gas of my own, there. Are the bathrooms still where I remember them?”

Rowena nodded as she held the wheel and said, “If it makes your airsickness feel any better, Aloysius, the galley is well-stocked with rum and sausages.”

As the fat journalist clumsily let himself down the ladder from the bridge to the corridor below, Rowena looked around for Gideon. He was standing by the window at the starboard side, which opened out on to the observation deck where Louis Cockayne had taken them on board in an act of piracy as they were bound for Egypt. From that same deck, Rowena, Bent, and the others had watched as Gideon tackled John Reed aboard the brass dragon over London.

The
Skylady III
was a tripler—powered by a combination of clockwork, steam, and electricity. Rowena didn't understand the electricity much, and she didn't like relying on things she didn't understand, so she tended to make more use of the steam and clockwork. But steam meant coal, and coal was heavy and cost money, so she only used it when she was being paid well, like on this job, or when she needed to be somewhere fast, because when it had a full head of steam the
Skylady III
could certainly move.