Iron Horsemen (22 page)

“It is.” Looking around, I noticed what hung on the opposite wall. A grand painting with three Templar Knights dressed in white tunics with a large red cross over their chests.

“Alexander, thank you for being here. You make it easier to deal with my father being poisoned.”

“I haven't given up on finding a cure for your father.”

“Lord Kannard smashed the vial. I think I'm out of options. I just hope we make it back before he…”

“Don't say it. Chances are that wasn't the only batch of antidote.” I took her hand in mine. “We'll find a way, Genevieve. We have to.”

The sound of footsteps on the marble floor yanked us away from each other. A man in a long blue coat trimmed with white stitching strode toward us. He looked to be in
his middle thirties and was handsome in a studious way. He stopped, bowed, and asked, “Pardon, but you are Baron Kensington's Daughter, are you not?”

I pulled her behind me. “Who are you?”

“I am the Chevalier Eustache de Moley, Nobelsse d'épé.”

I noticed his ring; it bore the same cross as the painting behind me.

“My father met with you when we came here,” Genevieve said. “In this museum.”

“Yes, and I know what has happened since that meeting. I believe I can help you.” He bowed and motioned for us to follow. “Please, at my estate, I can explain everything.”

I was beginning to believe in the Templar's mystical nature, but that didn't mean I trusted them. Genevieve might know him, but the way he found us in the museum felt a little too convenient.

I followed the French nobleman out of the Louvre, and noticed he studied the scene with a cautious gaze. I quickly searched for the men in long black coats who had pursued us earlier, but saw only a carriage decorated with ornate gold leaf.

“Wait.” I grabbed Genevieve's sleeve.

Two silver-plated mechanical steeds stood before the carriage with a white-wigged coachman holding the reins from atop his perch. A similar footman stepped off the back and pulled a small lever. The door popped open and a gold-trimmed step flipped out from underneath.

The nobleman stepped into the carriage, but I held Genevieve back and pointed to the mechanical horses. “Those are
very
similar to the one Lord Kannard used.”

Lord de Moley assured her. “All will be explained.”

“My father trusted you and so shall I, but we will require an answer about your automatons.”

She stepped into the carriage with assistance from the
footman, but I ignored the snooty, white-wigged man. We sat opposite the French Templar, who studied us as the carriage pulled off at a leisurely pace. It quickly picked up speed, as the metal hooves clinked against stone.

My eyes narrowed. “Now about those horses … Lord Kannard has a bronze steed that looks just like yours.”

Lord de Moley shook his head. “Bronze? He always did lack a nobleman's grandeur.”

Genevieve narrowed her eyes. “You know Lord Kannard?”

“Of course. There was a time when we were friends. He was a member of the Templar Order, but he was corrupted. Now his highest ideal is the desire to enslave all men.”

“A Templar, that's impossible!” My chest wrenched in pain as a pillar of my idealized world crumbled. “He's evil, he kidnapped my father, poisoned the Baron, and you're telling me he's your friend!”

“Used to be my friend. My mentor even. But those days have fallen into distant memory. However, he knew of the ancient blueprints and the texts your father has been studying.”

I heard the pain in Lord de Moley's voice. I was reminded of Coyote's betrayal of the Sparrowhawk crew.

“You said you could help us, what did you mean?” Genevieve asked.

“I believe I can aid your father.”

She leaned forward. “You have the antidote for the serpent's venom?”

“No, I'm afraid only the Knights of the Golden Circle know what poison was used. However, I have another solution. Perhaps a better solution.”

The carriage turned down a tree-lined road leading to a sprawling mansion on the outskirts of Paris. The white stone had grayed with age. The grounds needed a gardener to prune back the overgrowth, but the villa still maintained
its grandeur, an echo of earlier times when the king himself would have stayed within its walls.

As we entered, I noticed most of the furniture was covered in great swaths of white cloth. Deep layers of dust smothered the side rooms, but a well-traveled path wound through the halls.

“Forgive the state of my home. Had I known guests were coming, I would have notified the staff.”

I laughed. “Our stop in Paris was unplanned.”

“I must confess I spend most of my time in the study,” Lord de Moley said with an apologetic smile. “And I would be honored if you would address me as Eustache.”

How could I address a nobleman by his first name?
He seemed to sense the question and continued, “I insist. I spend so much time alone, it would be nice to feel as though I were entertaining friends.”

The nobleman—Eustache—opened a series of double doors using several keys tucked away in various vest pockets. I heard strange overlapping sounds as we arrived on the second floor balcony of the nobleman's study. Massive equipment and various contraptions made of bronze, brass, or iron filled the center of the room. A Tesla coil curled up in one corner, and a machine spinning half globes drew my attention to the other. On the tables, long glass tubes twisted around wood and iron stands connecting angled bottles and beakers, some bubbling atop small flames.

Two walls covered in once-magnificent cabinetry ignited my curiosity. I wanted to explore the hundreds of cubby-holes and long shelves filled with strange, labeled jars, bottles of every size and shape, odd-shaped wooden boxes, and intriguing canisters like tiny chests made of copper.

The wall we passed through was covered from floor to ceiling with shelves stuffed with books. Only the small arched doorway broke up the collection of dust-covered
tomes that would have made my father's mouth water in envy. The final wall at the back of the room held two windows, one with his desk and the second his telescope. A glass door stood between them with the de Moley family crest mounted above.

We headed down a wrought-iron circular staircase to the floor below. A myriad of exotic spices and sweet aromas mixed with putrid burning beakers and a bit of sulfur that seared my throat. I wished my father's office was more like this, twisting glass, bubbling beakers, and mysterious machines—so much more interesting than just old books.

Eustache motioned for us to sit. “I've devoted my life to the Order and discovering the lost knowledge of the Old World.”

Genevieve lit up. “You're talking about magic aren't you?”

I dropped onto the stool. “Magicians are just snake oil salesmen. That's what my father always says.”

He paused, smiled as he cocked an eye at me and then continued. “With this new industrialized world rising over the horizon, many of the old ways are being forgotten. Sadly, the Inquisition stamped out much of the rest. So myself and a few others have dedicated decades to the study of alchemy.”

“You're an alchemist?” Now he had my attention.

“An apothecary actually, a mixer of potions, and one of my discoveries a few years ago was this.” He pulled a small silver box from the cabinet and handed it to Genevieve. She ran her hand over the three lapis lazuli stones at the center of a twisted Celtic design. With her thumb, she slid the clasp to the side and opened the box. Inside, lying on green velvet was a glass vial containing a strange cloudy blue liquid.

Eustache sat across the table as Genevieve and I looked up with questioning gazes. “It's Four Thieves Potion.”

Genevieve stared at the vial. “Grand Master Sinclair
mentioned this. He thinks this could save my father.”

“I believe it can. During the horrible Black Death, four thieves developed a potion to steal from the wealthy homes in the infected cities. When eventually caught, they had not contracted the plague, nor even been sick, and one had been cured of his consumption. Their lives were spared for the secret of the potion.” He pointed to the silver box in her hands. “That took me years to develop, I read the Vatican transcripts of their trial and the supporting material of a French apothecary and doctor who worked with them. It is rare, valuable, and there isn't enough time to make more … so treat it with care.” Genevieve nodded her head repeatedly.

“When your father was attacked Grand Master Sinclair sent a telegram, and I immediately went to work to make that batch. I was about to leave for England when I heard of your crash. You have until the third day of the full moon, about one week, to administer that dose to your father. He'll be weak for some time but, God willing, he should recover.”

Tears came to Genevieve. “Thank you. You have my eternal gratitude. I'm certain my father will thank you when he is in better spirits.”

“Yes, thank you.” I wanted to know more, to ask the questions sparked by the nobleman's tale, but my thoughts shifted to my own father. “We should be getting back to the Sparrowhawk. The captain said it could take that long just to fix her, and we should probably be helping.”

Eustache's expression hardened. “No! You cannot wait that long. You must leave immediately.”

“How can we get to England in a week without the Sparrowhawk?” Genevieve asked.

Eustache grabbed a rusty key from his desk. “Come with me, both of you.”

“I should contact my father.”

“I've already sent word. Wouldn't want him thinking
you'd been kidnapped.”

“But—”

“I trust him, Alexander. And my father's life depends on him.”

I drew in a deep breath. Genevieve stepped through the glass door and crossed the gardens to follow Eustache. I stood in the doorway and watched as they walked past roses of every color growing with abandon on the grounds amidst overgrown flower gardens, ornamental bushes that clearly needed tending and row upon row of fruit trees.
We should return to the Sparrowhawk. We should consult with my father and Captain Baldarich
. As Genevieve disappeared around a bunch of bushes, I shoved my concerns away and ran after her.

Eustache rattled the rickety door of a stone shed on the far side of his garden. I tried to peer through the lead glass, but it was covered in dusty cobwebs and all I could see were dark blurry shapes. He slipped a key in the lock and as he pulled it open, the musty smell made me cough and sputter. Every surface within was covered in a thick grayish-brown veil. Iron tools lined the walls. A splotchy canvas tarp covered whatever filled the center. He walked up to it and yanked the corner back, filling the shed with a cloud of thick dust.

As the dust settled, a slender sleek craft, like a long boat, took shape on a trailer. But I noticed right away, it wasn't any ordinary boat built for skimming the waves. Rigging lines ran along the rails securing two large sailfins on each side of the stern. Plus a three-bladed propeller sat where the rudder should be. The craftsmanship was beautiful, but it was also the oldest airskiff I'd ever seen. I ran around soaking up every little detail.

Eustache lifted a bundle of dirty white cloth and tossed it on the craft. “She's called the Mystic Wind, and believe it or not she was the fastest airship of her time.”

“But which century was that?” I chuckled.

“Oh come now, she's a fine craft. The balloon is in great shape, the only problems are the sails,” He stretched out the cloth. “They're as holey as Swiss cheese. We'll need silk or canvas to fix them.”

I helped him muscle the balloon into place and secured it with the rigging ropes. Pointing to a round metal box in the center of the airboat, I asked, “What is this?”

“It generates the heat that inflates the balloon and runs the propeller.” He tapped a wooden handle with a brass knob. “Pull to add heat, that makes it climb and speeds up the propeller. Trim the sails and fins to steer.”

I smiled and we hooked the balloon's tube to the engine. Eustache poured coal into the tank and checked the igniter.

Genevieve looked over the sails. “We'll get off the ground but, we won't go far. We'll never reach England.”

I poked my head through one of the holes. “Where are we going to get enough material to patch these holes?”

“My dress!” Genevieve clapped her hands in excitement and twirled around until her skirts billowed out in a wide circle. “I'll change into my old clothes.”

I shook my head at her. “Genevieve—” She turned and, for a moment, her shoulder's drooped and her expression darkened. “—That's brilliant!”

Her smile returned even bigger than before. I tossed her my bag, and she headed off behind the shed.

I went back to looking over the airskiff.

“So what do you think?” Eustache asked. “Can you two fly this?”

“Absolutely! Thank you so much. I don't know how we can repay you, but I will see you are compensated. Granted this comes from a penniless schoolboy, but I'll figure something out.”

He laughed. “No need. If you truly want to repay me, save her father.”

Genevieve stepped out from behind the garden shack wearing her pants and corset, and I couldn't hide my smile.

Eustache quickly turned to look. “My my. Very improper for a young lady of your position. I wonder what your father will think.”

Genevieve stuck her hands on her hips. “I like it.”

Not only had I'd become accustomed to this look, but to be honest, it suited her more than the dress. I had to admit I liked it, too. Very much.

Eustache motioned toward the house. “It is late. Why don't we have some dinner and repair this vessel in the morning.”