Captain Gravenor’s Airship Equinox (Steampunk Smugglers) (9 page)

He blinked. “Why, Miss Hardcastle, that must have been quite
a kiss to make you lose your grip on the hand.”

She licked her lips slowly, then put her hand to her cheek.
“Why did you do it?”

“Because I wanted to.”

She nodded. “I wanted it, too. Are we really going to run?”

“Count on it.”

“Then I’d suggest you wait to embrace me again, Mr.
Gravenor, as I really cannot be trusted to think clearly under these
circumstances.” She walked shakily to her cot and sank onto it, staring at the
floor. “I know I am forgetting something terribly important.”

He wondered if she’d never been kissed before. The
compliment she paid him was absurd, yet flattering. A kiss so powerful it could
stop the thought processes of an inventress the likes of Miss Hardcastle?
Impossible. But sweet.

He watched her spine straighten, then her fingers fluttered.
As he picked up the dead man’s hand, she flew to a bucket and pulled out a
length of wire, then another and another. She twisted and curled until she had
a long hook of sorts, with a loop at the end. With a mischievous grin in his
direction, she pointed through the bars of the cage.

He looked. And looked again. And spotted it. The twins had
left the dead man’s knife behind.

He cursed softly. “Is it of use to us?”

“I don’t know, but I see no reason to leave it. I knew
something was different, but needed to order my thoughts to remember what had
changed.” She patted her hair.

“Let us do this quickly then, in case we receive company. If
they remember to feed us they could return at any moment.”

She fairly flew the five paces to the bars, then crouched to
the dirt floor and poked the wire hook through. It flopped on the dirt, then
became stuck around a rock embedded in the ground. But then, very precisely,
she caught the knife by the pommel and pulled it back through the bar.

“Ha! I didn’t even need the lasso.”

He raised an eyebrow at the Americanism. She grinned.

“Everard had a taste for American dime novels. He couldn’t
be a cowboy so I guess joining the BAE was the next best thing.”

Brecon picked up the knife and twirled it in the fingers of
his good hand. How could it be used in their interest? He considered using it
as a threat, poking it into Two’s throat and forcing One to lead them out of
here. But that would not be successful. If escape were that simple, he could
have stuck his hook into one of them long ago.

Was there some way to persuade the man to take them directly
to an airship? His airship, to be exact? If others were testing it the aircraft
was operational. He could fly them out of here on his two-man airship. But the
Red Wing heater cannons would get them long before the balloon could inflate. So
what? To the barn then? Saddle horses?

Perhaps he should use the knife to kill them. Quickly. Stab
One, stab Two. Grab their heaters and leg it. He glanced at Philadelphia. She
wasn’t a fellow ruffian like him, but a lady in corset and skirts. Even though
her corset was torn, it still had all the parts that allowed it to conform to
her body. No part of a rescue plan should involve running.

“I can see those gears turning, Mr. Gravenor. Planning your
next avenue of attack?” She licked her lips.

He bowed slightly. “Not on your radiant form, my dear, but
on this prison.”

“Oh.” She touched her hair again. “Do you still want to
tunnel under the wall? I’ve had some thoughts about a shovel, though I don’t
know if the batteries we have will last long enough.”

“No, under the cage. Now that we know there is a door on
this level, we’ll be fools not to use it. As long as no one is watching us
here, it’s the best plan. We can get under the cage more easily than the wall.”

“I’ll work on the shovel, then.”

Boots clanked on the steps and a young boy and girl trotted
into the room, one carrying a tray and the other buckets.

“Where are the twins?” Brecon asked the girl, who worked in
the scullery.

“Burying the body,” said the boy. “She’s a mute, you  know.”

“No, I didn’t.”

The boy fished in his pocket for the cage key. Brecon’s hand
twitched around the knife, hidden along the back of his thigh. He couldn’t use
it on a child, though, not even for Miss Hardcastle. No, he wasn’t ruffian
enough for that.

Silently, he watched the children go about their business
while the inventress poked at the brass hand, muttering to herself. When the
children had clanged back up the steps, he used the wooden spoon to ladle up
bowls of porridge. Then he wiped down the knife and cut the one sausage they’d
been provided and split it into the porridge.

“I believe I’ve solved the mystery,” she said, sitting next
to him on the bench and taking up her porridge.

“Just like that?”

“I had several theories rattling around in my brain. I only
needed to see the hand to know which was correct.”

“Does it use the aether?” Brecon didn’t know if he believed
in the mysterious substance. It had never been proven to exist.

“No.” Her eyes caught the sunlight and gleamed. “Electro-magnetic
waves.”

“Explain.”

She took a bite of porridge. “The BAE airships must be
wired. The brass hands each have a receiver and the BAE airships have a
transmitter. The wiring acts as an antenna and issues a shock by
electromagnetic waves if the hands are too far away from the wiring.”

“And it is only so strong, so if you get far enough away
from the airships the transmitter has no effect, but then if you are close you
are recaptured.”

“Exactly.” She set her bowl down and picked up the hand,
pointing to a coil with a disk at one end. “See? This is a capacitance plate.
It holds a charge, enough energy to kill a man if there is a large enough stream
of energy.”

“Dastardly.”

“But clever. If you are in the business of controlling men,
this is the way to do it.” She picked up her bowl again. “They must install
lightning rods to avoid inadvertent charges that would electrocute everyone.”

“And the hand you made for me is safe from the airships?”

“It doesn’t have the capacitance plate,” she agreed. “There
is no way to hold enough charge to kill you. And I don’t know what frequency
they are using, even if you had a transmitter, which you don’t. Your hand
wouldn’t fool anyone. The battery case is smaller so that makes the back look
different, and of course the other equipment is missing too. I’m still not
quite certain about one or two items.”

“I don’t plan to board a Blockader airship any time soon,”
Brecon said. “Just get out of here.”

She downed her sausage quickly, once the porridge was gone.
“I’ll work on my shovel.”

For his part, he decided to see if he could use the knife to
open the lock on the cage. Much quieter than digging. How he wished he had
Terrwyn Fenna’s valuable lockpicking skills.

By the next day, he realized what he really needed was a
file. He’d borrowed a hairpin from Philadelphia and messed around with it and
the knife until he heard a couple of tumblers move. Now, he was trying to file
down the point of the knife with sandpaper.

When he heard boots on the stairs, he tossed the knife under
the blanket on his cot and picked up a piece of wire he’d had handy as a decoy.
Miss Hardcastle unscrewed the additions she’d made to the dead man’s hand and
tossed them under her blanket.

The captain appeared, flanked by her brothers. Two held two
buckets in his meaty grip. One had a rucksack. In a moment of sheer panic,
Brecon wondered if he’d left any scrape marks on the lock. A trickle of sweat dripped
down his back as the three approached. The captain gestured and One opened the
lock, barely looking down as he inserted the key. Brecon stared hard,
memorizing the shape. Could they cut into the dagger and create a rough key?
Would that work better?

“Have you solved the mystery of the brass hand?” the captain
inquired pleasantly.

“I believe so.” Miss Hardcastle met the captain’s gaze with
a cool resolve of her own.

“Tell me what I need to know.”

“There will be a transmitter on each airship,” she said,
gesturing with her hands. “Look for a lightning rod and it should be nearby,
attached to a wire running in both directions. If you can destroy the
transmitter, the brass hands will not present a danger to the enslaved men.”

The captain raised an eyebrow. “And the individual hands?”

“There is a receiver in each one. Remove it and an
individual hand would be free from the energy transfer.”

The captain’s lips curved in a nasty smile. “And if I wanted
to give the Blockaders a taste of their cruelty? I would put this transmitter
on my own airship?”

The inventress put a hand to her stomach, as if sickened by
what the captain proposed. Brecon felt the same way. What if she wanted to
create her own enslaved crew?

“Only the enslaved men have brass hands, not the BAE officers.”

“Regardless,” said the captain. “Perhaps a taste of their
own medicine would involve forced amputation.”

Philadelphia took a deep breath. “You would need to strip
the wiring and put that around your airship.”

“I could supply that.”

“You have to match the frequency of the transmitter and the
receiver in the hands,” she said.

“But you could do it. I’ll make an airship available, and
all the wiring you need.”

“Why?”

The captain opened her eyes in a parody of innocence. “For
practice, of course. Set up the wiring and the transmitter, even the lightning
rod if you must. I’m sure we have an amputee around here somewhere. We’ll put
the brass hand on him so you can test. Then I’ll send the men through the airship
so they can see what they are up against.”

“So this is a test plan, so your men can practice destroying
the system?”

The captain smirked.

“Why does it need to be a working system?” Miss Hardcastle
asked.

The captain shrugged. “Why not? It will be fun for you, to
use your skills in a practical application.”

The lady’s hands became fists. Brecon touched her shoulder,
warning her not to speak or act.

The captain kicked at the dirt floor. “Really, One. You need
to clean this blood away.” She turned and strode out.

“We could use another meal,” Brecon called, ignoring the
sour twist in his stomach as he instinctively glanced at the blood trail.

“By the way,” the captain called over her shoulder. “You two
stink. One, give them their gifts.”

Two grinned savagely and tossed the contents of his buckets
at Brecon and Philadelphia, soaking them from head to toe. Brecon spluttered as
Philadelphia removed the water from her face with her dirty sleeve, leaving a
sheen of machine oil on her cheek.

Two stepped forward and dumped the last of a bucket over her
head. “Scrub away that oil. The captain doesn’t want the crew to think you’ve
been mistreated when you’re out testing the airship.”

One tossed his package through the bars. “Clean clothes.”

The twins offered nothing but blank expressions as they
turned and walked toward the steps. One slowed as they reached the alcove where
the door was hidden, as if pointing it out. Or perhaps just marking the blood
trail. Brecon wondered if he knew they’d left the knife behind.

“The free trader has become a tyrant,” Miss Hardcastle
whispered.

Something told him there was a small chance One was
concerned about that. “We need to get out of here.”

“If we’re going to be allowed out to wire an airship, maybe
we can escape that way.”

“They’ll be expecting that. And many of those around won’t
be sympathetic to us, as they’ll have no idea what is happening.” He ripped the
sleeve off the shirt he wore and opened it, then used that to clean
Philadelphia’s face as best he could. Then, he kissed the tip of her nose.

She looked woeful. “Do you think she’s planning to build her
own enslaved army?”

“I can’t say, but we don’t want to give her the tools. It’s
the best way to create a monster. We need to get out of here now. Do you think
your shovel will work?”

“I’ve calculated the battery strength versus the heavily
packed dirt, and how deep I think we have to dig to get under the bars, and it
isn’t looking like we have much room for optimism,” she admitted. “I’m afraid
we won’t be able to dig enough to allow a child to escape.”

“Then we’ll need to pick the lock, or cut through the bars.”

“We have nothing that will cut.” She used his sleeve to
towel off her hair.

“Then screwing it is.”

She gasped.

He grinned. “Lockpicking, that is. I apologize for my use of
street slang.”

“Thank you for the translation, Mr. Gravenor.” She put her
hand to her throat. “Picking the lock is a more elegant solution, and certainly
quieter. I was concerned about my little engine. What difficulties are we
likely to face?”

“We aren’t experienced at the craft, for one. I am trying to
file down the knife so that I have a more precise point.”

“I can help you with that.”

“Excellent. First, let’s see what is in the sack.”

She opened it, finding a worn black dress and a pair of
trousers and a shirt. “They certainly don’t expect us to be warm.”

Brecon sighed. “Maybe they want us to take ill. At least
we’ll both have something that isn’t ripped.”

“I suggest we layer, filthy or not. Those buckets they threw
on us didn’t do much to make us clean. We needed soap.” She coughed.

He wondered if they’d be able to get dry before the sun went
down. Damn that Captain Red Kite!

As they worked through the afternoon, they discussed what
they should take with them. Nothing. How they should flee? On foot or
horseback.

“You must leave your airship behind?”

“We do not want to be thieves,” he said. “We just want to
go. And we can’t risk noise.”