Sorcerer's Secret (16 page)

“It's nothing really,” Fritz cut in quickly. Bridget could tell that he didn't quite trust the two soldiers. “Just a little task we have to finish.”

“Spies, eh?” Wood said, nodding knowingly.

“I hate spies,” Smallwood cut in. “Either fight or go home. None of this lurking around—that's not true soldiering.”

“We're not spies!” Bridget retorted, stung. Fritz gave her a warning look, but she ignored it. “We're looking for the Fair Engineer!”

“Is that ironic?” Smallwood asked. “There's only one engineer around here, but I don't think anyone would call him fair.”

“I thought of him,” Whitman said. “But it didn't make sense. He's the opposite of fair.”

“Maybe they mean fair-minded,” Colonel Wood mused. “Of course, I don't know if we'd call him that, either . . .” Bridget couldn't take it anymore. She hopped right in the middle of the room.

“Who are you talking about!” she cried. “Do you know who we're supposed to meet?”

“Maybe,” Whitman said slowly. “He doesn't quite match the description, but the colonels are right. Maybe the word fair doesn't mean what we think it does.”

“There you go,” Sister Charity told Rory, standing up. “You should be fine now. Just try to protect the area.”

Rory pushed himself to his feet. He felt much better. “Then let's go see this guy, fair or not. Before we run out of time.”

P
eter Hennessy sat in his chair, stone-faced, as Kieft stared down at him. The First Adviser did not look pleased at what he was hearing.

“Where has this unexpected backbone come from?” the man with the black eyes asked, his eyebrow raised.

“I won't do it,” Mr. Hennessy said, as he'd been saying for the past half hour. “I've broken too many promises in my life. I won't betray my children.”

“Was that why you led Moses on a wild-goose chase?” Kieft asked. “He told me that you must have circled Queens three times before he realized what you were doing.”

“They're my children,” Mr. Hennessy repeated, his arms crossed protectively across his chest.

“What about your wife?” Kieft asked. “Aren't you afraid of what I'll do to her?”

“I realized that you won't dare do anything to her,” Peter said. “She's not just leverage against me, but also Rory. And Rory is more important than I am. So you wouldn't harm her or Bridget's body.”

“How . . . calculating of you,” Kieft said. “But you are not the only one who can hedge his bets.” He held out his hand and a small fly buzzed down to land on his palm. “Have you met any of Hearst's little pets? Very useful for overhearing secrets. This little one spent the past day nestled in your shirt collar. She listened in on everything and then she relayed it all to me. So I know all about Van der Donck's journal and his account of the Agreement.”

Mr. Hennessy's face fell as he realized that he'd betrayed his children just by being in their presence. Kieft leaned in. “You can imagine my delight at learning that they are following such a doomed path. You well know how difficult it is to travel. Still, it is time to stop this charade. You not only carried this little fly with you, you also transported a few of her siblings, who are even now nestled in the clothing of your progeny. Once they have gathered enough intelligence, they will return to me and then I will find your son and finish this. Your son has proven quite adept at slipping from my grasp, a skill I salute him for, by the way. But I am done playing games.”

Mr. Hennessy let out a moan. Kieft smiled. “Don't worry. Your son is mine, but that doesn't mean I will kill him. He is much more valuable by my side than he is under the ground. So you still have a role to play. He doesn't have to know your part in this. Help me one more time, and he will go the rest of his days remembering his daddy the hero, not his father the turncoat. How does that sound?”

Mr. Hennessy stared back in horror, unable to face this choice. No matter what he did, he always ended up hurting the ones he loved.

N
icholas, Alexa, and Lincoln heard the strains of the jazz band playing down the hall as they approached the unmarked door in the back of an unremarkable building in Greenwich Village. They reached the door, knocking once, then three times, then once again. A small panel slid back in the middle of the door.

“Password?” a voice demanded.

“Salamander salad,” Lincoln replied, having picked up the password from a friend. The music washed over them as the door opened to reveal a dour-looking mobster in a pin-striped suit.

“Welcome to Chumleys,” the man said, and the Rattle Watchers pushed past him into the memory of one of New York's most famous speakeasies. During Prohibition in the late twenties and early thirties, the government made it illegal for anyone to drink alcohol. So secret bars, called speakeasies, popped up in cities all over the country, where if you knew the password you could dance to the hottest music, rub shoulders with celebrities and criminals, and, most importantly, have a drink.

Nicholas, Alexa, and Lincoln were interested in none of these things as they pushed their way through the crowded room. The little place was packed. Tables were set up all around, with a bar in the corner and a lively five-piece jazz combo playing on a small stage. Brightly dressed spirits danced the Charleston in the middle of the room, laughing and spinning. Some were mobsters, some were thrill seekers out on the town. But most were children of the gods. Which was why the Rattle Watch was here.

“Don't they know there's war coming?” Lincoln muttered, glaring at the dancers.

“Of course they do,” Alexa replied. “That's why they're dancing.”

They made the rounds, speaking in low tones with various groups of children of the gods, trying to recruit. But no one seemed to care. And then a voice rang out.

“Well, look who it is! Mr. and Mrs. Goody Two-shoes!”

In the corner, squeezed around a small table, sat Nicholas's old gang: Teddy Twiller, Randolph Morris, a very drunk Robert de Vries, an embarrassed Jane van Cortlandt, and their ringleader, the one who'd called out with a sneer in her voice, Martha Jay.

“No surprise to see you here,” Nicholas said as they approached the table.

“No luck getting idiots to join your little army?” Martha asked, waving a drink in her hand.

“It's weird how no one wants to go get killed!” Teddy Twiller said mockingly.

“You won't be laughing if Kieft wins!” Lincoln announced, his eyes burning.

“Why are you so sure Kieft is such a bad guy?” Randolph slurred. “He gave us such pretty knives!”

“So it's true!” Alexa leaned in. “Tell me you are not dumb enough to go running around with those evil knives! What are you thinking!”

“Haven't you heard?” Martha asked. “Anyone can be a god now. Isn't our old friend Simon now the God of Plates, or something like that? Why should he have all the fun?”

“You don't understand what you're messing with, Martha,” Nicholas said.

“Don't you always say we need to have a goal, a purpose?” Martha asked. “Well, my goal is to be a god. I can have a purpose, now. I can matter. All it takes is one little stab with this!” She pulled out a familiar knife, and the Rattle Watch stepped back in alarm. Nicholas noticed that not all of Martha's companions seemed happy at the sight of the knife. Robert de Vries looked green and Jane van Cortlandt glanced away unhappily.

“This will end badly,” Alexa warned. “Kieft didn't give you that knife so you could become a god. He did it to sow chaos and fear. You can't murder your way to the top.”

“If you want to be a part of something noble and just,” Nicholas said to the others, realizing that there was nothing more they could say to Martha, “then join us. We hope you do.” With that, he led a disheartened Alexa and Lincoln back the way they came, leaving Martha Jay and her friends playing with the knife like the children Nicholas feared they'd always be.

A
fter taking leave of the colonels and Sister Charity, Whitman bundled up Bridget and her companions in his wagon and quickly drove them west across Brooklyn toward the river. The light was beginning to fail as they trotted into Brooklyn Heights, the upscale neighborhood of old brownstones and quiet, tree-lined streets hugging the river directly opposite the soaring skyscrapers of downtown Manhattan. They pulled up outside an unassuming brick building, poured out of the wagon, and followed Whitman up to the front door.

“Who are we here to see?” Fritz asked at Whitman's feet as the god knocked heavily on the thick wooden door.

“His name is Washington Roebling, and he is the God of Dangerous Projects. He built the Brooklyn Bridge.”

“Well, that sounds like an engineer, all right!” Bridget said. “So why didn't we come here in the first place?”

“Because he didn't fit the description. Fair is not a word I would attach to him, in any definition of the term.”

“Because he's ugly?” Bridget asked innocently.

“You'll see . . . ” Whitman replied cryptically, and the door creaked open before Bridget could press him further. A young maid stood in the doorway, dressed in an old-fashioned frock and apron.

“Are you here to see the master?” she asked, not looking any of them in the face.

“Yes, is he in?” Whitman asked.

“He is, sir, but the Mrs. is not home. That might make it hard . . .” She trailed off. Bridget was dying of curiosity to learn about what was going on with this mysterious engineer.

“We can't afford to wait,” Whitman told her, and the maid nodded meekly, turning to lead them into the house.

As they walked up the stairs, Bridget glanced at her brother, worried. He seemed to be all better, but she couldn't be sure. Soka walked by his side, watching him as if he would fall apart at any moment. His injury seemed to have woken her up, Bridget noticed. Maybe now she'd admit that she and Rory were destined to get married. Bridget would be maid of honor (of course!) and she'd catch the bouquet and everything. She could hardly wait.

When they reached the top of the stairs, Whitman turned to the rest of the party.

“All I ask is that you try not to stare,” he said, and then nodded to the maid to take them to Roebling's room. Bridget was bursting to know what was going on. The maid opened the door.

“Mr. Roebling, visitors!” she called. A man's voice drifted out, too weak to be understood. The maid turned back to them. “The master will see you.”

Whitman led them into the room. At the sight of the god, Bridget gasped, her heart going out to him.

Washington Roebling sat in a wheelchair, his limbs twisted beneath him like gnarled old tree branches. His face was locked in a rictus of pain, and his eyes darted to and fro as if he couldn't quite see his visitors. When he spoke, his voice slipped out of him soft and slow, as if every syllable were an exhausting battle.

“Do not worry, child, whoever you are,” he said, and Bridget had to force herself to remain patient with the slow trickle of his words. “I may look a fright, but I am no monster.”

“Why do you look like that?” Bridget asked. “It's horrible!”

“Bridget!” Rory whispered, mortified.

“No, it is fine,” Roebling said softly, and they had to strain to hear him. “The city remembers me this way, so this is how I remain. It is not all bad. My wife, Emily, keeps me abreast of the world outside. Even now she is meeting with some of your friends, Mr. Whitman, to convey my support for you in your fight against Kieft. And when she is not home, I can see the world from my window with my telescope. If only the world close up were as easy to see.” Roebling stopped, breathing heavily from the effort of making his little speech.