His Lordship Possessed (18 page)

protection from me? I’m calling for a beater.”

“You’d best shout loudly, then. Th ey’re all up on

the Hill.” I brushed his hands away and wrenched the

wardling from the wall, throwing it as hard as I could to

the fl oor. Silver-white light exploded across the room as

it shattered into three pieces.

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While the light faded and the old charm maker

squawked, I picked up one of the pieces and examined it.

Th e outside of the wardling, which appeared to be silver,

had cracked like cheap porcelain. Beneath the faux metal

coating lay a dirty, speckled gray stone disk.

“Gimme that.” Th e old man brought over his candle,

and as soon as the light from the fl ame touched the stone

the speckles glinted with all the colors of the rainbow.

Th e fl ashing colors made me feel lightheaded. “What

was the light?”

“Dispelled its power, you did,” he muttered, snatching

the piece from me and turning it this way and that.

“Shattering charmed stone always do.”

“So this is dreamstone.” What was it doing inside the

wardling?

“Th ese wardlings were struck from pure silver, they

said,” the old man griped. “Charged me double for ‘em.”

“Evidently they lied.” I picked up the other pieces.

“Where did you buy them?”

“Th ere’s a cargo house down by the dock that deals in

stone and metals.” He brought the broken wardling over

to the lit candle and studied it again. “Quarry masters

have been bringing ‘em in by the shipload for months.

Can’t keep ‘em stocked. Demand was so high they had

to start importing ‘em from Talia.” He looked up at me.

“Th at’s all being sold now: Talian-made wardlings.”

Walsh had said something about the Talians forging

them, but I’d assumed he meant forged as in hammering

them out of metal. I was dealing with another

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counterfeiting operation, like the one that had robbed

Rina’s poor old gent Wiggins of his bacco boxes, only on

a much grander scale. “But everyone still believes they’re

from the queensland.”

His shoulders hunched. “We knew, but silver’s silver.

Don’t matter if it’s English or Talian.”

Unless someone were planning to invade a country. “If

every wardling in the city has dreamstone inside it then

why haven’t the stones aff ected the people?”

“Because it’s always been thought stuff and nonsense.

Stones always work their charms, unless . . .” He fell

silent, dropping the broken piece and shuffl ing back from

it. “No. Couldn’t be. Th ey’d never put so many unspelled

stones in one place. Who’d be mad enough to do that?”

I went after him and grabbed his arms to keep him

from crumpling to the fl oor. “Why aren’t they working,

Mr. Jasper?” When he didn’t speak, I shook him. “Tell

me.”“A stone don’t work its charm if it’s raw. Never been

spelled,” he added, his eyes wide and his voice going

hoarse. “Raw stone soaks up power a hundred times

quicker, too. Longer it’s left unspelled, the more power

it takes.”

“From what?”

“Anything what lives: people, animals, plants. Th at’s

why all stone’s spelled for the fi rst time in the quarries, before it’s shipped. To keep us safe.” His face screwed

up and he clutched at his chest. “I can’t take any more of

this,” he wheezed. “My heart’s no good.”

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“Calm down.” I helped him over to his chair and

tucked his blanket round him. “If the stones in the

wardlings were never spel ed, then they’ve been absorbing

power for months.”

He closed his eyes. “Aye. Go away.”

“One more question, Mr. Jasper, and I will.” I bent

down so I could see his face. “What happens if a mage

tries to spell all these raw dreamstones now?”

He opened one eye to give me a hopeless look. “He’s

only got to spell one, gel. Raw stone stay connected to

each other, like they are under the ground before they’re

mined. Th at and all the power they’ve soaked up will

cause the spell to spread on its own. Th ere’ll be nowhere

to hide from them then.”

I didn’t want to leave him like this, but I had to fi nd

Zarath before he cast the spell. “I’ll ask one of your

neighbors to take you to hospital.”

“Don’t bother. I’m the only one what has a carri.” He

sounded more peevish than worried. “I’d rather spend my

last hours here, in my place.”

I felt horrible. “Is your heart really that weak?”

“Not my heart, gel. Th e stones.” He made a fretful

sound. “With that kind of power, as soon as the spell’s

worked, we’ll all go into the dreams. Every man, woman,

and child in the city. No one will ever wake up from

them. Not ever again.”

It seemed I was going back to the docks sooner than

I’d planned. I persuaded the charm maker to let me

borrow his transport, which he stored in the merchant’s

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carrihouse on the corner. Mr. Jasper gave me his keyfob,

which he said the doorman would demand to see before

letting me in.

“I’ll return it as soon as I can,” I promised.

“‘Twon’t matter to me if you do,” he muttered, staring

into the hearth’s embers. “We’re fi nished, all of us.”

I wasn’t giving up, so I hurried down to the corner and

presented the keyfob to the lad working the door.

He looked me over, his cheeks pinking as he did.

“You’re not Mr. Jasper.”

“How astute of you to notice,” I praised him. “I’m Mr.

Jasper’s daughter, Constance Payne.”

He frowned. “You’re Old Jasper’s kid? But he weren’t

never married.”

“Much to my mother’s everlasting sorrow, my father

abandoned her after one night of love.” I sighed. “After

enduring decades of needling guilt, he came to regret his

cruelty and searched high and low for me until we were

reunited. Now here I am, to run his every errand and

make golden his fi nal years. For which tonight I need his

carri. Where is it?”

“In the back. Stall thirteen.” Reluctantly he handed

back the keyfob. “You shouldn’t be out driving by

yourself, miss. Th ere’s a bad lot of furriners running about hurting people and setting fi res. Burnt the Hill, they did.”

“Th ank you for the concern, but I’ll manage.” I walked

back to stalls, found the one numbered thirteen, and

surveyed Mr. Jasper’s transport. Of course it was as old

and cantankerous-looking as its owner, but as soon as I

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punched the ignition and cranked the motor it wheezed

and chugged to life. As I wasn’t used to driving, I took

my time easing it out of the stall, then drove to the front

where the doorman opened the gate. Since it had no

glasshield I had to squint against the smoke pouring out

of the old coal burner into my face.

Th e lad held up his hand for me to brake, and once I

had he handed me some gogs for my eyes. “You take care,

miss,” he yelled over the sound of the old motor.

I wanted to climb out and hug him, but settled for

strapping on the eyewear and giving a fond wave.

Th e carri puttered along steadily as I drove it to the

Silken Dream. From Bridget’s storefront I could see the

houses on the Hill still burning out of control, and the

long line of carris and heavily laden carts clogging up the

roads down. If anyone survived this night, it would likely

be the rich, as they had all the cops dancing attendance

on them.

I knew Bridget kept a spare keylace in one of the lilac-

fi lled planters fl anking the front door, which I used to let myself in. Th e dresses on the forms in the front were all

ball gowns, which would be impossible to put on without

a maid, so I went to the back storeroom. Th ere hung a

selection of day and evening frocks on long racks, and I

searched through them looking for something simple I

could pull over my head.

“Th ieving bitch. Get your fi lthy hands off my clothes.”

I whirled round to see Bridget standing behind me, a

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to show her my face.

“Kit?” She lifted the lantern in her other hand and

peered, and then lowered the gun. “What in nine hells

are you doing here?”

“I needed something to wear.” I gestured at my

stained, torn skirts. “Something a bit cleaner.”

She set down the lantern. “Rumsen’s been attacked,

there are Talians out there torching the ton and slitting

the throats of disbelievers, and not a cop to be had away

from the Hill.” Her voice climbed to a piercing octave.

“And you’ve come to borrow a
dress
?”

I nodded. “If you wouldn’t mind lending me another

one that will end up fi t only for a ragbag.”

“Blind me.” Bridget fl ung her hand about. “Take

whatever you want. I don’t care. Take it all.”

“Only need one, but thanks.” I pulled a pretty light

green silk from one of the hangars. “Why are you still

here in the city?”

“Charlie got wind of this yesterday,” she said as she

came over to help me. “I told him to take the kids and go

south. We’ve a place down in Zhuma, on the coast, where

they can wait it out. Th ey’ll be safe there.”

I knew her husband to be an extremely practical man

who would naturally protect his family fi rst. “He wouldn’t

leave you behind.”

“He thinks me and my parents are following him by

train. Lift your arms.” As I did, she pulled my skirts over

my head and tossed them aside. Wrecker’s knives, which

I had forgotten, fell to the fl oor. Gingerly she retrieved

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them. “Why are you carrying kneecapper blades?”

“Because a cannon’s a bit too bulky.” I watched her set

them on a pin table. “Why aren’t you and your parents

on a train now?”

“You know Da; he won’t leave the mill to burn, not

with all the goods still on the looms. Mum won’t leave

him, so I had to stay to look after them. I only chanced

coming to the shop to see if any of the gels were using it

as a hidey-hole.” She stripped off my petticoats. “God,

you reek. Don’t you ever bathe?”

“Not of late.” I wriggled as the fi rst fresh petticoat

went over my head, and withstood another atop that

before I protested. “Th at’s enough. Any more and I won’t

be able to run.”

“Th ese are silk, not cotton. You can fl y in them.”

Bridget eased the dress over my head and worked it

down, straightening the full skirt and adjusting the

sewn-in waister. “I’m going to the mill when I leave here,

and that’s where I’ll stay until it’s fi nished. You should

come with me, love. Mum and Da have laid in enough

supplies to last us to Doomsday, and Charlie left fi ve

of the stablemen behind as my guards. Th ey’re proper

bruisers, all of them.”

I shook my head. “When you get to the mill, take

down all the wardlings your Da has about the place. “I

picked up a thin hairpin from a dressing table and tucked

it inside my mouth. “Th en toss them in the gin.”

“What?” She stopped buttoning me up. “Th at’ll mash

‘em to pieces.”

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“Exactly.” I told her what Mr. Jasper had said, and

added, “You don’t have to believe it. Just do it for me.

Please.”

“No, I believe you.” She backed away from me and

pulled out the pistol. “What I’d like to know is, how did

a stupid little twit like you fi nd out?”

My heart almost stopped. “You’re not funny.”

“I’m not jesting.” She didn’t take her eyes off me as she

called out, “She’s ready to go now, boys.”

It didn’t seem real until two of Walsh’s footmen came

in. Even then I didn’t want to believe it. “You can’t be

part of this, Bridge. Not you.”

“Why not me? You still think I’m a loomgel at heart? I

haven’t been, Kit, not for years.” Her face changed as she

put on one of her haughty Madam looks. “I am Madam

Duluc, wife to one of the richest men in Toriana and

France. Why should I care about the likes of you?”

She was acting. She had to be. “You’ve always been

my friend.”

“Wait,” Bridget said to the men as they started toward

me. “She’ll try to run, this one. Get some rope.” She

handed one of the blades Wrecker had given me to the

other brute. “Put this in my carri. I want it as a souvenir.”

Once the brutes had left and we were alone, I expected

Bridget to lower the pistol and tell me it was all a farce.