A Study in Silks (17 page)

A VAST MAHOGANY TABLE FILLED THE ROOM. ONLY THE
members of the Steam Council sat at the table, but their assistants crowded behind them, some sitting, some standing, adding their breath to the already stuffy air.

There were no windows, but gaslit sconces ringed the walls. The only decoration was an elaborate model of an airship suspended over the council table, one of the new transcontinental models, placed there as a reminder of what collaboration between the barons could achieve. A nice theory, but Keating thought it served as a goad to competition instead. The big passenger ships were the aeronautical equivalent of a barge. Every baron wanted to be the first to build a sleek and deadly warship to rule the skies. No doubt they all had plans
for experimental ships hidden in their desk drawers, waiting for the right opportunity.

Keating had hoped he’d been the only one to pursue the legend of Athena’s Casket—the Holy Grail of air flight. After all, even scholars thought it more myth than fact. Now he looked around the room, wondering if one of his rivals was the thief.

He took his seat. He was the last to arrive, but already he could feel the tension in the room, like some thick, sticky substance clinging to every surface. The Harter affair had put everyone on edge. There was little of the usual premeeting chitchat among the seven principals. The aides, flunkies, and hangers-on were restless, expending their energy in stormy glowers at their neighbors. Only the Violet Queen asked after Alice and the progress of his gallery. The woman never forgot her manners, despite the lines of tension bracketing her mouth.

The chair was a rotating position, and today Green had it. Jane Spicer was one of the two female members of the council, succeeding her late husband to the position. The softest thing about her was the bottle-green silk of her day dress. Otherwise, she ruled the commercial districts of the capital with a fearsome hand.

“Gentlemen. Ladies.” She rapped on the table with her knuckles, reminding Keating of a stern governess. What little conversation there was dribbled to a halt, stemmed by the harsh grating of her voice. If that tone could have been distilled and used as a weapon, the Empire would have the entire globe shaking in its boots. “We have a long agenda, so I suggest we begin.”

Keating listened with half an ear to what came next—an unnecessary roll call, the adoption of past minutes, and so on. He looked around the table. The Violet Queen, decked out in frilly violet ruffles, was as feminine as Green was not and was completely prepared to use that beauty when it suited her. Next to her sat Scarlet, an athletic, black-haired man with piercing blue eyes. Neither of these two worried Keating much—they were smaller players in the game, dangerous only if they forgot their self-interest long enough to
work together, and that was unlikely. Keating and Blount were both too good at sowing dissent.

The next two did interest him, but for different reasons. Silence Gasworks was an enigma, operating in the underground. It was believed that a couple ruled the Black Kingdom, but no one was entirely sure. They typically sent a single representative—and not always the same one—who sat and listened, voted if required, and volunteered nothing. Today it was a gray-bearded man in a kind of cassock who had identified himself as Mr. Fish. Indeed, he contributed as much as if he had floated up on the Thames’s polluted banks, belly to the air.

Keating would have been insulted by the apparition and thrown the lone man out, except he dared not. The underground was as large as the whole of London, and no one was sure how much power the Black Kingdom actually had. So Mr. Fish sat, silent, solitary, and unmolested.

The final member of the council was the Gray King, who occupied a smallish territory on Green’s northern borders. His people were outdoor sporting types with red faces and bushy whiskers who no doubt kept hounds and drank vats of good amber ale for breakfast. Gray was a good businessman and a nice enough fellow, in the fine old tradition of English country squires. Unfortunately, he had made some serious mistakes for which he was about to atone. That included trusting his peers.

Green’s shardlike voice fell silent, letting their ears rest a beat before launching into the new business of the agenda.

“Before we begin, I have something to add regarding the division of supply areas,” Keating said, modulating his own tone between firm and utterly reasonable. “The junction of the Blue, Green, and Gold pipelines at Blackfriars Bridge is proving inconvenient.”

“How so?” Green asked suspiciously.

“Simplification. Our gas and steam and rail holdings don’t align. There are householders in the area who pay you for their heat, me for gas, and then board a Blue train to go to their workplace. That fails to promote loyalty with our client base, which is something we all aspire to.” Sometimes
that loyalty was inspired at the end of a streetkeeper’s fist, but that was mere detail. “I propose Green retreat north of Fleet and leave the bridge as a clean divider between Blue and Gold territories.”

The woman huffed. “I think not. That area of town provides good revenue, as you well know. And furthermore, there is a toll on that bridge that is currently split three ways. You mean to cut me out.”

“Surely you are mistaken, madam.” She wasn’t, and they both knew it, but Keating plowed on. “The toll program has been purely experimental. We agreed not to institute charges that would impair healthy commerce in London. For a flat fee, anyone can buy a monthly pass and avoid individual tolls altogether. It only makes sense. Merchants have to move their wares. Farmers must get their goods to market. Fishermen …”

“Yes, yes, spare me the litany.” She waved his words aside. “That all means nothing. The meaning is in the money.”

She was right. Merchants paid not only for heat and light, but also to move their goods via railways, docks, and now bridges. The barons’ stranglehold on the areas their companies served was all but complete. Keating’s gaze flicked up to the sour-faced men standing behind Mrs. Spicer. They looked like clerks, doomed to a future of high desks and cold lunches. He knew for a fact she bled her businessmen of money before any of them got enough capital together to challenge her. Not a bad plan, but she didn’t have the wits to be subtle about it. It would have worked better if she’d made them think handing over their fortunes was their own idea.

“Move your area of influence north,” King Coal wheezed. “That will compensate you most handsomely.”

She wasn’t impressed. “I have a nonexpansion treaty with Gray.”

“Perhaps a concession, then,” Keating suggested smoothly. “You promised not to take him over if we left your southern borders alone. Give us your share of the bridge, and we’ll let you expand north.”

Gray jumped to his feet. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Indeed,” said Green, sitting back in her chair. Yet she did not relax. Every angle of her body begged for an excuse to pounce on this opportunity.

Keating meant to give her that. He rose more slowly, letting his fingertips rest on the mahogany surface of the table. “It means that inquiries have revealed storehouses of machine parts within Gray’s borders. Parts that any competent mechanic could use to construct his own boilers, gas burners, or batteries. Parts smuggled from unlicensed factories in the north and used in the workshops of the Harter Engine Company.”

Green rose, a hungry look on her square face. “That contravenes the first article of the Steam Council’s code of conduct. ‘No one shall promote or enable the general populace to generate its own power or means of locomotion without the express approval of all.’ ”

Trust her to be able to quote chapter and verse
. “We must protect our interests,” said Keating.

“He’s supporting the rebels!” Scarlet almost shouted in his fury. He was half out of his chair, but the Violet Queen pulled him back into his place by the sleeve.

“You’re seeing rebels everywhere, my dear,” she said calmly. “Calm yourself. They generally don’t hide under the furniture, much less at our council meetings.”

“You’re wrong,” Scarlet shot back, though with more self-control. “It’s this damned Baskerville affair. It’s not just the rabble anymore. The gentry are getting involved.”

“That’s nothing more than wishful thinking on the rabble’s part.” Violet pulled out her handkerchief, a delicate fluttering of lawn and lace, and dabbed at a faint gleam of perspiration on her cheeks. It was hot in the room, and tempers were making it worse. “All gentlemen of quality pass through my houses sooner or later, and if they have secrets my employees have a way of finding them out. I’ve heard nothing about the Quality taking up arms against us.”

That seemed to reassure Scarlet, but Keating’s interest was piqued. Whatever Violet thought, not every gentleman went whoring, and not every one who did struck up a conversation about politics with his doxy. More to the point,
what was this Baskerville business? And why hadn’t he heard about it? The gap in information irked him, especially so soon after his shipment went awry. He hated being caught by surprise.

But Gray saved him the trouble of asking questions.

“What’s Baskerville?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know,” snarled Scarlet.

“Baskerville is a phantom,” wheezed King Coal, his chair letting off a gust of steam as he leaned forward. “A rumor. A vaguery. There are whispers of a shadow government that will sweep in and seize control when the time is right, and we shall all end up on the gallows.”

A ripple of laughter went around the room, some voices less confident than others.

“It’s all nonsense. The crown prince will never stand for it,” the Blue King added. Victoria’s pleasure-loving heir was deeply in debt to the Steam Council. “He will never make a move against us as long as we give him a golden teat.”

“And yet they say Victoria is willing to oppose him in the name of duty. Turn him over to the rebels if need be,” argued Scarlet. “They say those were the Prince Consort’s final instructions to his wife.”

That sounded like Albert, who had loved progress until he realized it rendered old institutions like the monarchy redundant. But even so, Keating doubted that the queen would do anything that risked her children or the throne. “The Prince Consort might have frustrated our fathers’ version of the Steam Council, but he is dead.”

Scarlet stared at Gray. “Let’s not forget that he had faithful friends.”

“Too true.” Keating saw at once how he could use this Baskerville hysteria to his own advantage. Keating pointed a finger at Gray. “Mr. Thane, I believe your older brother was one of them. In fact, wasn’t he one of the gentlemen who worked alongside the Prince Consort during the planning of the Great Exhibition?”

“That was more than thirty years ago!” Gray sputtered.

Green broke in, her harsh voice slicing the air. “But isn’t your family motto something about remaining faithful after
death? Your brother is a lord, and that makes you one of the aristocracy. You’re one of them far more than you’ve ever been part of the business community, to be sure.”

That was met with a rumbling of dissent, particularly from the Blue King’s corner of the table. It was all Keating could do to keep from rubbing his hands with glee. This was too easy.

“Maybe if we dig deep enough into Harter Engine, we’ll find a few more lords and ladies, and perhaps a duke or two.” Keating gave a predatory smile as he piled assumption on wild assumption. Truth didn’t matter once blood was in the air. “Old friends of the Thane family, every one of them. Imagine what they could do with those combustion engines. No doubt they’d be trying to light up their fancy houses without paying us our due.”

“And that would just be the start of their treason,” Scarlet muttered.

Gray flushed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. You have no proof of any of this.”

“Of course we do, you little idiot,” Keating scoffed.

“You don’t!”

Which was true, up to a point. The Harter Engine Company had done its best to operate quietly, and Keating had next to no idea who was involved, outside of the public shareholders. Gray might be entirely unaware that the warehouse even existed. But none of that really mattered. Devious or stupid, Gray was weak and Keating’s spies had done their work. The man had been caught with the one kind of contraband that mattered to the barons.

Contraband that Keating now had under lock and key.

“We have a treaty!” Gray looked wildly around the table. “You are supposed to protect me!” His retainers were already backing away, fear twisting their bluff, hearty features.

“Treaties matter,” King Coal wheezed, “until they do not.”

Green gave a smile as sharp and unpleasant as her voice. “Gentlemen, I think we have an agreement. My bridge in exchange for this traitor’s lands.”

Gray reached out a hand to Scarlet, who shrank back. “You’re next.” Flecks of spit flew from Gray’s mouth, and he wiped his lips with his sleeve. “You or Violet. You know that.”

“Not yet, little man,” Scarlet said coldly. “I still have a pretty good hand of cards.”

And the stakes are so irresistible. Fool
. Keating turned and gave a nod to Striker, who gave a signal to the other streetkeepers in the room. At the same instant, the Gray party surged for the door, desperate for escape.

There was only one way treason against the council ended.

Keating’s hand snaked across the table, catching Gray’s wrist. A pitcher of water smashed to the floor, papers scattering into the wet. The man was strong, but Keating’s fingers dug in as he tried to pull away, refusing to give even as Gray dragged him sprawling over the table. Tendons and bone slid under his grip as Gray cursed in pain.

The sound caused a twist of satisfaction in Keating’s gut.
Got you
.

Then Striker was at Gray’s side, wrenching the man’s free arm behind his back. “Come on, guv’nor.”

“No!” Gray squirmed, but it was pointless.

Reluctantly, Keating released his prey and let the streetkeeper march him away. Seven steam barons walked into the guildhall that day. Six would leave. Harsh rules, but it was a harsh world out there, and it demanded a strong hand.
And someday there will be only two, and then one
.