Gideon Smith and the Brass Dragon (7 page)

She locked the 'stat into an ascending course holding due west, setting the electric bell—one of the innovations she had overcome her suspicion sufficiently to use—to sound when they reached the desired altitude. She looked back at Gideon and absently ran a forefinger along the line of her triceps, straining through the crisp white shirt she had changed into. A month of shoveling coal and winding the
Skylady III
's clockwork mechanisms (she was not yet making enough money out of her royal honor to employ more staff at Fanshawe Aeronautical Endeavors) had toughened up her already lithe and strong body. She felt a wave of something she couldn't quite identify as she regarded Gideon, something a little maternal, perhaps, that made her want to take him protectively in her strong arms. Perhaps it was something else, something lighter than air that fluttered behind her breasts, that ached between her legs. Something that made her happy and sad all at once. She was glad to be taking Gideon to find Maria. She smiled. Of course she was.

*   *   *

Gideon never tired of watching London unravel below him as an aerostat carried him to his next adventure. For so long he had dreamed of such a life, earthbound in Sandsend, only his regular escape into his favorite penny blood,
World Marvels & Wonders,
breaking the monotony of fishing the seas every day on his father's gearship, the
Cold Drake
.

Be careful what you wish for. That was what they said, wasn't it? Funny how you only ever heard that advice after you'd
gotten
what you wished for. As thin fingers of cloud began to draw a white veil over the huge sprawl of London falling slowly away beneath them, Gideon thought of the life he had now, living in opulence in Mayfair and flying off to New York at the drop of a hat when the Crown required it. He thought of the intensive training he had undertaken, how he could now strip down and rebuild a repeating rifle nearly without thinking, how he knew seven ways to kill a man without his target uttering a sound.

And he thought of what he had lost to be here.

He thought of his father, Arthur Smith.

Arthur Smith, who had died by the claws of the foul frog-faced creature, which either worked for John Reed or controlled his mind—Gideon still couldn't decide which. Arthur Smith, who had worked his fingers to the bone to make a good life for Gideon, especially after the death of his wife and his other two boys. Arthur Smith, who had indulgently shared—or pretended to, Gideon realized suddenly—his only living son's passion for the unlikely adventures of Captain Lucian Trigger, the Hero of the Empire.

What would old Arthur make of all this? There'd be sadness, of course, that the business he inherited from his own father and built up into a solid foundation for his family—until death began to claim them—wasn't going to continue in the hands of his son. But he would have known that Gideon's heart was never in fishing, that his mind and heart were forever given to the slipstreams of the dirigibles that floated high overhead. Arthur would have been happy for Gideon, would have burst with pride when his only surviving son received the Victoria Cross, the highest honor for bravery in the land, from the Queen herself.

Gideon blinked; London was lost beneath the clouds. He stroked the black leather of the document folder in his hands, then used his thumbnail to break Walsingham's seal. Orders. He had just begun to read when a small bell sounded and Rowena announced they had reached their cruising altitude. While Gideon had dreamed, she had crossed the bridge and stood alongside him; her unique scent of Pear's soap and gear oil filled his nose. Rowena laid a hand on his forearm.

“Were you thinking about Maria?”

Gideon smiled at her. “No. I was thinking about my dad. It's been so busy since … since it happened. I feel I've barely had time to mourn him properly.”

Rowena gazed past him at the stringy threads of cloud skidding over the glass window. “I know how you feel. I lost my father when I was very young, too.”

She still had her hand on his arm. Awkwardly, Gideon placed his own hand over hers. “I'm sorry. I didn't know.”

She smiled. “It was a long time ago.”

They stood together in silence for a moment, connected by loss and by touch, his palm across the back of her hand, until Bent hauled himself up the ladders, two bottles tucked under one arm and balancing a plate of gently steaming sausages in the other.

“I've just flushed my breakfast out over Greenwich,” he cackled. “Time to refill the tanks with rum and vittles. And I've a pack of cards to pass the time; they're in my front trouser pocket. Be a darling, Rowena, and fish 'em out, would you? Just mind you don't grab the old chap by mistake.”

 

6

T
HE
E
MPIRE
S
TATE

The sun sank far behind New York, lighting up the roofs and towers of Manhattan with golden fire as the
Skylady III
soared over the glittering Atlantic toward the vast, jumbled city. Gideon held his breath as Rowena began to bring the 'stat down lower. He had never dared hope he would see the fabled city at the heart of the Empire State, the living testimony to Queen Victoria's mastery of the Earth. He had read of it, of course, many, many times in the pages of
World Marvels & Wonders
. Gideon's recent adventures had taken him to Egypt, to the New Spain territory of Tijuana, and to the Lost World, an unmapped dot in the great swell of the Pacific Ocean. But as the
Skylady III
gingerly nosed over Manhattan, the grasping towers of the great city casting long shadows over the gridlike streets below, Gideon felt the hairs on the back of his arms prickle and stand on end.

New York! Now he felt like a real adventurer. Manhattan was like a black insect that clung to the Atlantic coast, soot-darkened towers in the Gothic style thrusting upward, scraping at the underside of heaven. Whereas London had enjoyed a brief flirtation with the architecture of the lost civilizations of South America, erecting ziggurats with tumbling foliage flowing down their terraces all over the capital, New York seemed to have embraced the legacy of old Europe: a forest of pointed towers, jagged arches, and ribbed vaults.

“Rowena,” said Bent, standing beside Gideon on the bridge, looking out the panoramic window that curved around the front end of the gondola as the city opened up like a rich child's model plaything, “should we, strictly speaking, be actually
lower
than some of these effing towers?”

“Just following Walsingham's orders,” said Rowena through gritted teeth. Gideon could tell she wasn't entirely comfortable with steering the massive 'stat between the soaring spires.

Bent held on to the console, his suit and overcoat even more crumpled, if that were possible, after the transatlantic journey, and peered through the window. “There's some effer in that window, waving at us.”

Rowena jabbed her finger at the map from Walsingham's leather folder. “Apparently the Governor of New York has a private aerodrome, here.” Gideon looked at the map over her shoulder. The Governor's Residence was situated in the Albert Gardens, a huge, rectangular swathe of greenery at the center of Manhattan. “We've been granted landing privileges. Unfortunately, this is the only way to get there.”

Gideon looked up at the towers. “It's like London … but different. I swear some of these buildings are taller than the Lady of Liberty flood barrier at Greenwich.”

Bent sniffed. As Gideon gazed upward, Bent risked a look down. “In my experience, the higher a city's rich raise themselves up, the deeper its poor sink in the shit.”

Rowena didn't take her eyes from the course ahead, her hands moving blindly but unerringly over the instrument panel in front of her, as though she could sense the readings on the dials and clocks through strange osmosis alone, but she said, “And your experience of the world's cities is vast, is it, Aloysius?”

Bent sniffed. “Lived all my life in London. That's as much experience as a man needs, in my humble opinion. Greatest city in the world.”

“I think New York might have designs on that claim,” said Gideon, blinking as the
Skylady III
emerged from the manmade canyon of towers into an open space, the red rays of the sinking sun flooding the bridge. The Albert Gardens was an oasis in the center of the city, a green pause amid the teeming life of Manhattan, a long, sculpted park surrounded on all sides by teetering towers and spires, an elevated steam-train track threading among them.

Beside him, Rowena visibly relaxed. “We're through. I don't see why they couldn't have had us land at North Beach Aerodrome and steam-bussed us in, though.”

Terra firma within his grasp, Bent seemed more jovial, too. He nudged Gideon in the ribs. “That's because we're vee eye effing pees, ain't it? Very Important Personages, that's us. The Hero of the Effing Empire and his faithful chronicler.”

Gideon said nothing. As Rowena studied the orders from Walsingham and began to swing the
Skylady III
around and down toward the grand Governor's Residence on the east side of the Albert Gardens, his head and heart still danced high in the thin air far above them.

*   *   *

The Governor of New York, Edward Lyle, was a rotund man whose finely cut purple velvet jacket and black breeches proudly showed off his portly physique like a badge of office. He had thick, bushy eyebrows, one of which seemed permanently arched as though he questioned everything, and his mop of unruly dark hair was partially hidden beneath a stovepipe hat, taller than the current London fashion dictated.

“The Yanks try to do everything bigger than the Brits, even their effing hats,” murmured Bent to Gideon as they descended from the gondola to the stone apron adjacent to the Governor's Residence. Bent nodded to the opulent building. “Very grand. Ruskinian Gothic, if I'm not mistaken. Not a bad pile.”

Lyle was accompanied by half a dozen soldiers in dusky blue livery, each one flint-eyed and mustachioed, their wide-brimmed hats bearing the crossed-sabers insignia of the American Cavalry. Each shouldered a modern slide-action twenty-four-inch octagonal-barrel Winchester. Gideon smiled inwardly; he was getting quite adept in the recognition of arms.

The governor stepped forward to greet the arrivals. He was a full head shorter than Gideon, and he pushed back the stovepipe on his head to properly look at the adventurer, his eyebrow arching even more sharply as the setting sun slid over the balloon of the
Skylady III.

“Mr. Gideon Smith!” declared Lyle, holding out his hand. “It is a great honor to have the Hero of the Empire here in New York.”

“It's an honor to be here,” said Gideon, shaking the governor's hand. He thrilled slightly at the lilt of Lyle's American accent.

Lyle turned and took Rowena's hand, kissing it softly, and said, “Miss Fanshawe, the Belle of the Airways. And Mr. Aloysius Bent, esteemed man of letters.”

“You've done your homework, Governor,” said Bent, though Gideon could tell he was more than satisfied with Lyle's appellation.

Lyle inclined his head. “No need for mugging up, Mr. Bent. Your exploits have thrilled America as much as Britain, I dare say.” He clapped his hands together. “Now, you must be exhausted after your long journey. There are rooms for you all in my humble residence yonder, and doubtless you'll be glad of a good night's sleep. If I might be so bold, however, to suggest you might freshen up and then join me for a spot of dinner? We have much to discuss.”

“Dinner?” said Bent. “I like the cut of your jib, Lyle.” He wiped a dark stain off his waistcoat and sniffed suspiciously at the shoulder of his black jacket. “Shall we skip the freshening up, though, and cut straight to the chase?”

Gideon bowed his head. “Your hospitality is most welcome, Governor. We would be delighted to join you.”

As Lyle and his soldiers led the way across the apron toward the huge residence, Gideon looked up at the soaring towers where gas and oil lamps were flickering into life against the encroaching darkness.

*   *   *

Bent poked with a carving knife at the carcass at the center of the oval mahogany table as he suppressed a belch. “Damn fine bird you served up there, Lyle. What do you call it?”

Lyle sat back in his chair, deftly unfastening the top button on his breeches. “That's a turkey, sir. We generally have it for Thanksgiving, in November, and at Christmastime. I thought I'd have one cooked early, for my important visitors.”

“Can't beat a plump goose at Christmas,” said Bent, holding up his glass for the waiter to refill with wine. “But that wasn't a bad spread at all.”

Lyle smiled. “I am gratified it met with your approval, Mr. Bent.”

The wood-paneled room, brightly lit with gas sconces on the walls, had a large window looking out into the dark gardens of the Governor's Residence. Beyond, pinpricks of light picked out the black pillars that rose into the deepening violet sky. Lyle caught Rowena gazing out at the towers.

“Skyscrapers, we call 'em, Miss Fanshawe. They say New York is the city that never sleeps. Those lights will burn all night in some quarters.”

“Why do you build upward, Mr. Lyle?” asked Rowena. “One thing you're not short of in America is space.”

Bent chuckled and quoted,
“‘And they said, Go to, let us build a city and a tower, whose top may reach unto heaven.'”

Lyle smiled. “Is your knowledge of history and geography as broad as your grasp of Scripture, sir?”

Bent waved his glass. “I get by. I daresay Mr. Smith here would benefit from a recap. You know young'uns today; don't know what they teach them in schools.”

Lyle pushed back his chair and hauled himself up. Behind him on the wood paneling a furled Union Flag and a portrait of Queen Victoria flanked a large chart of the American territories. He took up a cane and pointed at the East Coast.