A Study in Darkness (34 page)

“Ah, some nice gears there for sure,” said Black George, hooking a thumb into the bib of his apron. “I know just who might be looking for a few o’ those.”

Of course he did, for a percentage. Nick didn’t begrudge him that—his complaint lay in other quarters. As if on cue, Digby struck up a slip jig, tapping his heel on the floor to keep time. A man with a wheezy concertina joined in. Striker turned around and put on his best thug-at-large expression. “I know you have buyers lining up at the door,” Nick said in a hard voice. “My question is who else you’ve got hanging around the back alley.”

“And what would you mean by that, Captain?” George said uneasily.

“The wrong kind of folks have known where to find me and my ship of late.”

Striker leaned on the counter, an unfriendly smile on his swarthy face. “Folks with very bad manners. I was right testy by the time they shoved off.”

Black George shook his round head, sweat running into his beard. “I’m a businessman, and I know that kind of nonsense does no purse any good.”

Nick believed him—Black George liked his shillings, but he lived for his throne behind the bar and the thrill of striking a bargain. He wouldn’t put all that at risk. But there were plenty of other eyes and ears in the Saracen’s Head. As
much as Nick was glaring at George, he was watching the bystanders from the edge of his vision.

He leaned close, his face inches from the gaping pores in George’s nose. “Then tell me how they found out where I was to meet the Schoolmaster. You were the only one who knew the place.”

George recoiled, his eyes so wide the whites gleamed in the murky light. “I said nothing!”

“Oy,” said a thin man in a brown suit, grabbing Nick’s arm. “Leave him be.”

Striker grabbed Brown Suit by the scruff and hauled him away from the counter. He let the man dangle in one hand, not quite letting his heels touch the floor. “Don’t interrupt the captain when he’s talking.”

The man spit in Striker’s face, the foamy blob catching him right between the eyes. Nick’s stomach turned cold and hollow. “Oh, bloody hell.” A palpable sense of horror blanketed the room, and Digby’s lazy slip jig suddenly somersaulted into a reel.

“Ha!” Striker tossed Brown Suit onto the bar one-handed. The man skidded, the soft cloth of his coat sliding as slick as a bar rag across the worn surface. Black George lurched out of the way as the man went over the far side, dragging a mess of dirty tankards and makeshift lamps with him. The barkeep began stamping out the flames. A patron helpfully pissed on a particularly obstinate fire.

Someone pushed Nick from behind, knocking him forward so that he stumbled into a stool and nearly went down. He wheeled around, clinging to the stool, and raised a foot just in time to catch a big man in the chest. The man staggered back, arms waving wildly to catch his balance. He had the grin of a man who was fighting just for the joy of it. Nick looked wildly around, seeing the same gleam in a dozen pairs of eyes.
Bloody, bloody hell
. Nick’s crew might have had a reputation, but there were still only three of them.

“Digby, get over here!” he roared.

“But I’m helping, Captain!” cried the helmsman, winding
around one more chorus. “I’m playing you some fine tunes for courage.”

“I’ll tune you, scrawny bastard!” Striker shot back. “I’ll use your guts for your next set of strings.”

“Sure you will, and I’ll put you and your coat in a corn field to scare the crows.” Digby countered by hopping onto a table and striking up “Rocky Road to Dublin.” Nick had to admit it was a fine fighting song.

And a good thing, too, because the man who’d hit him in the back returned, this time with a chair. Nick ducked just as he swung it, coming up underneath and driving a fist into his gut with all his weight. The chair spun out of his hands, smashing into a pillar with a shower of kindling. Black George picked up a leg and thumped another brawler over the skull.

Nick drove his assailant backward into the wall, driving a fist into his jaw once, twice. The man’s eyes rolled up in his head and he slid down the wall, a dribble of spit finding its way down his chin.

Hand stinging, Nick turned just in time to see Striker smash a tankard into someone’s face, but another fighter was picking up a splintered piece of chair to use like a dagger. And then he recognized Brown Suit as the man with the aether gun from the
Leaping Hind
—the one Captain Hughes had named Bingham—no doubt looking for a chance to silence them for what they’d seen.

“Sweet Mother of Darkness!” Nick rushed forward to grab him, his skull pounding with the music just as the wooden weapon was raised to skewer Striker through the back. It might never have made it past the coat, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He drove his shoulder into the man so hard they both flew into the rack of tankards, sending the whole mess crashing to the floor, tankards bouncing and spinning with a clatter. Nick’s head hit the floor hard, stunning him.

“Enough!” bellowed George, bashing on the counter with his chair leg.
“Enough!”

Digby lifted his bow from the strings. The sudden silence caught as much attention as Black George’s roar. There were a few thumps and clatters as bodies came to rest, but
no one landed another blow. Blinking hard to clear his vision, Nick sat up, disoriented. The motion made his stomach lurch as a blinding pain blotted out his vision. He took one slow breath, then two, waiting for the hurt to recede. Then he slowly glanced around the room, wondering where his opponent had gone. The man had vanished.
Bugger!
The
Leaping Hind
had disappeared, but if this man was alive, that meant it landed safely. But what had happened to the ship and crew?

He hadn’t gone to anyone with information about the Blue King’s weapons. For one thing, he’d been in mid-flight most of the time. For another, he wasn’t sure whom to tell. And now it appeared the information was even more valuable—and dangerous—than he’d thought. He would have to be very, very careful where he placed his trust.

Nick sprang to his feet, wondering if he could still catch Bingham, but dizziness swamped him, along with a blinding pain in his head.
By the Black Mother of basilisks!

Striker picked something up from the floor that looked to Nick like a metal croquet ball with legs. He was turning it over, his brows furrowed with curiosity, when Black George grasped Nick’s sleeve and dragged him into the back room. Nick followed at a stagger.

“Are you trying to kill my customers?” the big man growled.

Nick straightened, doing his best not to wince. “I have knives. If I wanted them dead, they’d be bleeding by now.”

“I’ve been your friend. This,” George said, waving an arm toward the destruction, “is no way to repay me.”

Nick’s temper stirred. He hadn’t started the actual fighting. But he was saved from the folly of explaining himself when Striker pushed through to the back.

“Yours?” he asked George, holding up the metal object.

“No,” said the barkeep, unimpressed.

“It was above the shelf. Fell down when the captain knocked it over.”

“What is it?” Nick asked.

Striker turned the thing over. Patches of grillwork showed here and there, revealing clockwork that moved when he
spoke. “It’s got a recording cylinder inside. It takes down everything we say.”

George and Nick exchanged a stormy look. “That’s not mine!” Black George boomed, sending the device into a flurry of whirring gears.

“I believe that,” said Nick. He was pretty sure he did, anyway. Sophisticated devices just weren’t part of George’s world.
So whoever the traitor is, they have access to expensive toys
. That ruled out the local snitches, anyway, unless they were working with a steam baron or some other maker with an ax to grind with the rebels.

Nick turned to Striker. “Can you figure out who made it?”

The big man shrugged. “I’ll strip it down. See what I can find.”

Nick glared at the blob of dull metal. Had someone put it in the tavern near where George always stood? Did someone collect it from time to time to copy out the many conversations gathered in its clockwork brain? What had he said that could twist around to bite him? Nick had always been careful, but this was a hazard he hadn’t foreseen.

The muscles up the back of Nick’s neck screamed with tension. He hadn’t signed on to fight a revolution, but the enemy was trying like hell to make the fight personal.
They’ve attacked me, my ship, and my men. Now they’re targeting the people I deal with—the people I have a pint with. Does it get lower than that?

“After my folk under my roof, are they?” George muttered. “I’ll be taking some bones for the soup pot before this is done.”

“Don’t invite me to dinner that night,” Striker said, trying to pry the device’s case open with a knife. He’d be obsessed until he figured out exactly how each component worked.

Nick sat on a cask, gathering his scattered thoughts. A pounding headache was making it hard to reason. “George, you need to think about new faces around the Head. There was at least one man who made himself scarce once the shelf came down. He calls himself Bingham.”

Striker muttered something foul.

“I don’t know that name,” George replied. “There are my
regulars, but always a few strangers passing through. I’ve had no reason to think ill of any of them, till this.” George jammed his hands into his curly dark hair. “That’s a fine thing, isn’t it? I’ve run this place for a score of years, never had a problem. And now I don’t know who to let through the door.”

It was a miracle that the Blue King hadn’t shut him down sooner, but whoever had found the Saracen’s Head was fishing for a bigger catch. Yet saying so wouldn’t help a thing. “We’ll help you clean up.”

Just then Digby stuck his head through the door and waggled his eyebrows. “There’s a very pretty girl out here wanting to buy parts.”

Nick gave him a withering look.

“I’m telling you the truth!” Digby insisted. “She said she’s been told to ask for the captain and no one else.”

Traitors, devices, rebels … Nick had had enough problems to deal with lately without adding the female variety, but he followed Digby out nonetheless. A captain’s work was never done, and he was the deal-maker—but if this was no more than a crewman’s prank, Digby would be scrubbing pots for a month.

The helmsman led him through the wreck of the Saracen and out into the street, where it was quieter. Dusk had fallen, and someone had set a row of the improvised lamps in the window, and writhing flames cast a weak pool of light into the muddy track of the street.

Then Nick saw her. An instant wave of heat surged from deep inside him, rushing through his brain like a quart of brandy drained in a single swallow. He curled his fingers into fists, as if to clutch whatever shreds of reason still remained. Anger and need curdled into a poisonous elixir, stinging wounds still bloody and raw.

“Go,” he said to Digby, his voice little more than a rasp. Digby went.

Evelina was turned to the side, looking nervously toward a couple of drunkards laughing and pushing each other from one wall to the other. The sight of her made him forget the pain in his head, the fight, everything but the two of
them. She looked thin, wearing what looked like a traveling dress that had seen happier days. Her wavy dark hair was pulled back in a simple knot. Nick was no expert in fashion, but he knew the difference between this outfit and the expensive gowns she’d been wearing last spring. Something had happened.

“Evelina.” He managed to keep his voice steady. A point for him.

Her head snapped around at the sound of his voice.

“Nick?”

“Yes.” He folded his arms, reminding himself to keep his distance. Four strides of air between his hands and her flesh. Four strides between fury and forgiveness. There would be no crossing it.

On top of the desire of a man for a woman—which was sharp enough, thank you very much—his Blood chafed at the distance between them. But being close had always been a disaster. The silver fire that came whenever they were together drew every deva from miles around and sent the spirits into a drunken frenzy. Athena had taught him much, but he wasn’t sure if his training could withstand the assault of Evelina’s touch.

“I suppose I could ask what you’re doing here. Out alone in the dark on these streets,” he said. Angry as he was, he couldn’t help wanting to know—and wanting to know what he could put right. He’d been her protector all through their childhood. Some habits were impossible to break.

“You stole the gold and the casket,” she said, her voice low and tense. “Everyone is looking for it. The Steam Council …”

“I know.”

That made her blink, as if she’d expected to warn him of something he hadn’t already heard, but then she regrouped, squaring her shoulders. “You ran from everything. Why?”

“I needed a fresh start.” And her detective uncle had all but handed him the fortune. He’d never known the reason, but it had been a godsend. “You said you needed a different life from the circus, and I thought maybe I did, too. After all, you landed in the lap of luxury. Why shouldn’t I?”

“But what did you …” She trailed off, looking him up and down. Every line of her body spoke of bewilderment.

“You said you needed good quality parts.” He smiled, though there was no joy in it. “Everyone has need of a pirate from time to time, even you.”

“Nick!” she cried softly, her eyes wide with dismay that quickly slid into disappointment.

“My, my, so much judgment.” He wanted to go on, to vent all the bitterness clawing up from the pit of his soul, but there was no point. “Yet you’re quick enough to want what I have to sell.”

“True enough,” she said dully, lowering her gaze.

“How did you land here?” He took a step closer, risking that much. He was worried less about the magic than about his sanity. Half of him wanted to slap her, the rest to cradle her in his arms like a foundling child, promising her protection from the entire world. Neither impulse would do them any favors.

“Keating. I found myself on his bad side.”

“What did you do to him?”