Heart of Steel (22 page)

Archimedes nodded. “All right. What do you think it is?”

The assassin hauled out another map of Vienna and the surrounding area. “A possible place to build the clockwork army. Its position is perfect: near enough to the Hapsburg Wall that if the Horde were to break through, the soldiers would be readily available to stop them—but also far enough away to allow time to mount a defense.”

“The Hapsburgs had da Vinci's machines on this side of the wall.”

“But they were created to defend the wall and to halt the Horde's machines, not to stop troops of mounted soldiers from coming through. A clockwork army could slow them.”

Though clearly doubtful of that possibility, Archimedes peered at the woodcut again, asking Ollivier about dates, verifying the history of the piece. Yasmeen only half-listened, watching him, admiring the line of his jaw, his careful study of the items Ollivier had brought. She'd never given much thought to how he'd prepared for his adventures, but he'd obviously done something similar to this: poring over old maps, reading through letters, comparing different accounts of the Horde advance and Europe's retreat.

Finally, he nodded. “Clockwork army or not, if the structure was newly built before the zombie infection came through the city, then it's worth looking for—and hopefully it was built solid enough that it's more than a pile of rubble.”

Ollivier beamed. Encouraged, he selected more maps. “If we find nothing there, our next location is Brenner's Pass.”

Brenner's Pass? Yasmeen shook her head. She easily found the pass on Ollivier's map. She placed her finger directly beside it. “There is a Horde outpost right here.”

“And that only supports my theory. This has long been recorded as an important pass. If the Horde broke through the wall, they would have needed to come through the pass to the Italian peninsula. And we know from the letters of generals and merchants that there were supplies being sent up to the pass, along with engineers and laborers. They were building something there.”

“Da Vinci's machines,” Archimedes said.

“Those, too. But even if we do not find the clockwork soldiers, this location isn't picked over. We'll find something in the fortress they constructed there. And in the deep snow, the zombies won't be such a threat.”

Archimedes gave him a long, unreadable look before glancing at Yasmeen. She grinned, showing him the tip of her tongue caught between her teeth. His shoulders shook in a silent laugh, and the exaggerated lift of his brows said he was astonished that she'd managed to remain silent.

Ollivier might know his way around a map, but he clearly hadn't spent any time on the ground. Although severe cold could freeze a zombie, it didn't kill them, and they were mobile again as soon as they thawed. A very cold zombie was sluggish; because of that, many people thought that if one of the creatures was surrounded by snow, it posed less of a threat. But the worst danger came from deep snow, with zombies under it, and not quite cold enough to slow them down.

“What of the outpost?” Yasmeen said. “If
Ceres
is spotted, the Horde will come and look.”

“We could hike in to the fortress or drop in on gliders at night, and arrange for pickup after a few days,” Archimedes said. “As long as
Ceres
doesn't hover during the day, it won't draw attention to us.”

Ollivier nodded, and seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. “From there we move around the Adriatic Sea,” he said. “I've picked out a few locations to search, all based on their tactical position.”

Archimedes frowned. “Tactical position for what?”

“You recall the fragment of the correspondence between da Vinci and Luca Pacioli? They were discussing Hannibal marching on Rome.”

Shaking his head, Archimedes said, “Rome has been picked through like Vienna. The Church has been sending salvagers for hundreds of years.”

“Oh, no—I was thinking not of Rome itself, but the strategy. The Hapsburg Wall had already been constructed. If da Vinci and the generals wanted to send an army east, they'd have to get over their own wall first. But if they go about it as Hannibal did, and come from an unexpected direction . . .” He pointed to the boot of the Italian peninsula. “Launching from here, perhaps, and attacking the Horde from the south. And they'd have kept it quiet, so that the Horde wouldn't know they were coming.”

Again, Archimedes didn't appear convinced, but he nodded. “All right. It's worth a look. May I study your notes?”

Obviously pleased by the request, Ollivier nodded and began gathering his papers. “Yes, of course. Let me put them in order, and I will have them brought to you.”

Arms full, he left the stateroom. Archimedes looked to Hassan. “He knows what he's about. He has unique sources. He's put the information together in unusual ways, but it's good information.”

“Good. We'll be in Vienna tomorrow morning; you can start your work then, God willing.” With effort, the older man stood, his heavy breath resonating deeply in his chest. “Forgive me. I'd hoped to have more opportunity to sit with you before I joined the captain for dinner, but the business with the reward has cut into that time. Perhaps tomorrow, you will take the midday meal here with me.”

“We will,” Archimedes said.

Hassan's gaze moved to Yasmeen, then to the kerchief over her hair. Though the tips of her ears were concealed beneath the blue silk, she had no doubt that he'd recognized what she was.

He smiled faintly. “You are a surprise to me, Captain Fox. I am tempted to throw diplomacy away and miss dinner in the captain's cabin simply so that I can discover more about you.”

Miss the captain's dinner the first night aboard
Ceres
, after he'd brought an insult to the captain aboard, and allowed Archimedes to destroy a possible hundred-livre reward? “You flatter me,” she said. “But you are too wise to be tempted at all.”

Hassan's smile broadened. “There are times I wish I could be the fool—especially when I face a night spent soothing ruffled feathers.”

“It is too late.
I
have taken the part of the fool,” Archimedes said, coming around the table and sliding his hand into hers. “I have already succumbed to temptation and will spend the night basking in her presence. Come, my wife. A fine meal awaits us.”

 

 

It had been some time since Yasmeen had eaten with an aviator crew, but the messes on an airship's berth deck were all the same. Long tables ran down the center of the deck. Benches on either side provided seats. Farther aft, beyond a set of paneled partitions that provided little privacy, rows of bunks lined the sides of the deck.

Silence fell when Archimedes and Yasmeen climbed down the ladder, though the aviators must have known they were coming; word of the altercation with Guillouet as they'd boarded would have swept through the crew before she and Archimedes had settled in their cabin. Eighteen men sat at the table—only the deck crew on watch was missing. She saw curiosity, irritation, a refusal to meet her eyes. All right. She wasn't sure whether each of those reactions was because she was a woman or because she was Captain Corsair, but she'd figure it out soon enough.

But whether these men considered themselves her enemy, it was always best not to make an enemy of a cook. Though the stew slopped onto her tin plate wouldn't have been fed to her crew, Yasmeen smiled and said thank you.

Archimedes walked with her to the table. She'd already told him who to sit by, if possible—the first mate had influence over the other aviators, and they'd already made his acquaintance. With his charming grin in place, Archimedes stopped beside the big man with the bruise over his eye.

“Last night, I thought you hit me so hard I saw double. Now I know it's not true.”

The first mate laughed and made room on the bench. Across from him, his twin did the same. “I wish I'd known I was fighting Archimedes Fox. I'd have shined my knuckles up a bit.”

Yasmeen took the seat next to him as Archimedes rounded the table. The first mate glanced at her, but though she'd taken twice as many men down in the brawl, he didn't invite her into the joke as he had Archimedes. That was all right. They didn't have to feel comfortable with her. She was here to observe and listen, not to make friends.

She picked up a powder biscuit, broke it in half, and stared. It was wormy.

The mutter came from farther down the table. “Captain thinks she's too good for us.”

No, worms didn't bother her—she simply didn't understand why an airship carried infested supplies. Unlike a ship that spent weeks between ports, an airship could refill their stores easily.

She bit off a chunk, searching for any unusual flavors. The barley and salted-beef stew had already begun to congeal. The watered-down grog tasted like shit, but it was all safe to eat—and all from the same source. She met Archimedes' eyes, gave a small nod.

A thin aviator on Archimedes' right cleared his throat. “I was sorry to hear about
Lady Corsair
, Captain. A fine ship, she was. It was always a pleasure to see her fly.”

“She's not a captain.” This came from the other end of the table. “She has no ship, no crew, no commission. She's not a captain.”

“She's my captain,” Archimedes said.

Yasmeen smiled and waited for it.

“Mon capitaine?”
The first mate's brother lifted his head. “On this ship, there's ‘my arse' and ‘my God,' but no ‘my captain.' ”

Cheers sounded up and down the table, the men laughing. Archimedes' brows rose. She shook her head. It wasn't mocking, and their reactions told her what she'd hoped to discover: A good portion of these men had once been sailors, but they weren't tied to the navy with bonds so tight that good-natured humor couldn't slip in between.

“You're still mine,” Archimedes said, holding her gaze.

Yasmeen's lips parted. How did he do that? It was a personal, possessive claim, stated in front of a crew, but it was clearly supportive rather than undermining her.

Flustered, she looked to the thin aviator beside him, the one who'd complimented her lady. “Thank you, Mr. . . . ?”

A blush darkened his cheeks. “Leroy, ma'am.”

“Thank you, Mr. Leroy. It was a pleasure to fly her.”

The first mate leaned forward, stuck his hand over the table. “Vashon, here. Peter. That's Paul.”

“Vashon,” Archimedes repeated. “Of the Flying Vashons?”

Yasmeen's brows rose. The Vashons were a famous French aviator family whose generations of military honors and aerostat inventions had built them into a legend.

“Cousins, but they don't claim us,” Peter said. “We ran into a bit of trouble when we were younger, flying off in airships that didn't belong to us.”

“Vashon airships,” Paul added.

“We'd probably still be welcomed in the fold if they'd been anyone else's. And if we hadn't tried to race to the Arctic Circle, deflated the balloons in an ice storm, and ended up making a boat of the ships. Have you ever seen a great white bear? Me, either. One day, though.” He shook his head and continued the introductions, gesturing toward the quiet man on Yasmeen's left. “The shy one there is Cassel. He talked to a woman once—then his mother put her tit back into his mouth to shut him up. The raggedy one next to him is Simon. That bitter one next to him is Mr. Engels, our navigator's mate.” He indicated the man who'd said she wasn't a captain. “He never left the war.”

“There are a lot of men that haven't got out.” Engels didn't glance at her. “My brother Vincent, who was killed by a firebomb in Bonaire after she scouted out his garrison for the Liberé. You're licking the ass of that woman, Vashon. Even the captain thought it was an insult to eat with her.”

“Yet the captain thought it appropriate for me to eat with you,” Yasmeen said. “Either I'm an insult he's passed on to his crew instead of bearing the burden of my presence himself, or he decided that my company is tolerable, after all. Which do you think it is, Mr. Engels?”

Engels's mouth shut. He gave a sharp nod and looked down at his plate.

He'd hate her still. That was just fine. She'd made her point. If he continued tearing her down, he'd be calling out his own captain with every word.

“I think the captain wanted to give us something more pleasant to look at than our first mate's ugly face,” Paul said, and grinned when chuckles started around the table.

“That's very kind, Mr. Vashon.” Yasmeen met Archimedes' eyes across the table. “I'm pleased that you find my husband as handsome as I do.”

The first mate laughed outright before he settled back, gave her a thoughtful look. “Your crew had women.”

“About half of them were.”

“Don't you worry about fornication?”

He said the word as if he'd suffered through a few too many sermons.

“No,” Yasmeen said. “They're welcome to do whatever they like, as long as it doesn't interfere with their duties or disrupt my crew's ability to work.”

“But aren't women always falling pregnant? Aren't you always losing crew members?”

“It takes two to make a baby, Mr. Vashon,” she said dryly. “So I let them know that if a pregnancy occurs, it won't just be the woman going. I've found it makes the both of them more willing to use sheaths.”

“Sheaths?” Peter looked to his twin. “How do you suspect Guillouet would respond to that suggestion if we offered it to him?”

“Maybe as well as the other suggestions we've given him.” Paul glanced at Yasmeen, then to Archimedes. His voice lowered. “Captain believes that women only serve one function, and it's not aboard a ship. But he thinks the whorehouses are just fine—and I'll say that I do, too. There's no one looking at you with big eyes in the morning.”