The Doomsday Vault (34 page)

“I got to see the Queen!” Alice said breathlessly. “The Queen!”

“You did indeed.” Father set her on the sidewalk. “Something to remember forever, eh?”

“What was all that for?” she asked.

“Old tradition, dating back to Queen Elizabeth. The Lord Mayor is technically the sovereign of the City, so the Queen asks for his loyalty. He gives her one of the five City swords to show she indeed has it, and he orders the gates open. Some say she's asking permission to enter the City as well, but that's rubbish.”

“What happens to the sword?” Alice asked. “Does the Queen give it back for next time? Does she get a new one every time she comes into the City?”

Father scratched his head. “You know, I never thought about that. You'll have to ask the Queen the next time you see her.”

“I will,” Alice said. “May I have an ice?”

Back then, Alice had thought Temple Bar awe-inspiring and the ceremony fascinating. Now, however, she saw only congested traffic where the crowded street narrowed from four lanes to two. They slowed, joining the line of carts and carriages. Alice fidgeted. People stared at Tree and the mechanical as they passed, though traffic didn't halt. Machines and other strange objects weren't uncommon in London, as long as they behaved themselves. Still, Alice was nervous about being recognized, and she kept her hat pulled low. The line of traffic at the Temple Bar stalled, edged slowly forward, stalled again.

And then she saw Norbert. He emerged from the pedestrian gate on the south side of the Temple Bar and strolled straight toward them. The fine material of his conservatively cut suit and waistcoat stood out from the crowd of rougher men, as did his confident air. Alice's heart jerked. Whether she told Norbert the full-blown lie or the edited truth wouldn't matter in the slightest if he caught her red-handed with Gavin. She put a hand over her mouth as if scratching her nose, turned her head away from him, and prayed he would walk on by.

“You, lad!”

His familiar voice filtered through the street noise. Alice flicked a glance downward. Norbert was standing at the mechanical's feet, arms folded.

“Yes, you, lad!” he called. “Tell me who built this machine. I can't imagine it was you.”

All the breath left Alice's breast. Panic constricted her chest with iron bands and her bowels turned to liquid. She couldn't think. If she spoke, or even lowered her hands, he would recognize her. What could she—

“Oi! Don't talk to 'im!” Gavin said from Tree. His American accent had been replaced with something one might hear from Seven Dials. “He's just an apprentice, and anyway'e lost 'is voice in an accident. Inhaled the wrong fumes.”

Norbert turned. Traffic edged forward again, but he was easily able to keep pace with Tree and the mechanical. “Are you his master? You look young for—”

“No, guv'nor. That's our master.” Gavin pointed to Barton. “What do you wants to know?”

Alice sat motionless in the mechanical. Relief that Norbert was no longer looking in her direction eased some of the panic, but the danger was still imminent.

“I run a machinery concern,” Norbert said to Gavin. “If your master builds mechanicals and needs a source of machine parts, I would like to speak with him.”

“Yeah, all right. I'll tell 'im when he's finished sleepin' it off. You got a card, guv?”

Norbert handed one up, and Gavin thanked him. He turned to go, then paused and came back to the mechanical. He squinted up at Alice, and she started to panic again. He knew.

He tossed a coin upward. It landed on the seat beside her. “Go see a doctor about your voice, lad.” And he was gone.

Alice deflated on the padded bench. The relief was so complete, she lost all strength to stir a limb until the drover behind the mechanical shouted at her to move forward. She complied.

“Are you all right?” Gavin called.

“You were wonderful.” Gratitude overfilled her like water in a tiny glass. “A real hero. A true—” Then she remembered she was supposed to be a boy and stopped herself.

“That was your . . . I mean . . . you knew him, didn't you?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

And they said no more.

Getting through the Temple Bar was tricky. Tree had to turn around, stoop, and go backward so the low arch wouldn't rip at his branches. Alice had to put the tall mechanical in a crouch and make it take baby steps. Both processes took considerable time and did nothing to endear them to the people behind. Once they were through, the Strand widened considerably and traffic flowed much more quickly, allowing them to move with speed.

“That stupid Bar thing stops everything dead right at the busiest point in London,” Gavin complained. “And it's ugly to boot. They should just tear it out.”

“Temple Bar?” Alice said, aghast. “It may be ugly, but it's been there for hundreds of years. The Queen stops there every time she enters the City. It's a long-standing tradition. They'll never take that down, not in a millennium.”

Gavin grimaced. “I suppose. But now we really need to hurry. Barton's waking up, and I'm out of laudanum.”

The Strand sped past them. Alice caught occasional glimpses of the Thames, crowded with boats and small ships. Many of them were powered by coal-fired steam engines. But mostly she saw tall buildings, all square and no-nonsense and covered with coal soot. Her earlier exhilaration had left her, and now she wanted only to deliver Barton and the mechanical to the Third Ward so she could go home to a bath, a good meal, and a nap. Driving the mechanical, with its constant pedals and pulleys, was beginning to tire her.

At last they cleared the more crowded part of London and entered the greener parks and squares of Westminster. A fog rolled in off the Thames, sending a chilly gray blanket after them. It was already growing hard to see by the time they reached the gates of the estate Alice barely remembered from a year ago. In the center of the wrought iron was the numeral 2 surmounted by a square root symbol. They opened as Tree and the mechanical approached. Moments later, Alice and Gavin were both climbing down from their mounts. A crew led the restless Barton away and, at Alice's direction, stowed Norbert's little machines in a crate. Since there was no incriminating evidence on them, Alice didn't much care what happened to them at this point, though she didn't relish the thought of refitting them.

The fog chased Gavin and Alice inside the great brick house, where Alice was escorted to a dressing room. She was allowed a quick bath and was given a simple green dress and straw hat. Feeling immeasurably more normal and secure in skirts, she was fastening the last button when the door opened and the woman who gave her the clothes poked her head in.

“If you're done,” she said, “Lieutenant Phipps wants to see you in her office.”

“Of course she does,” muttered Alice, who wanted nothing more than to go home.

The door to Phipps's office was shut, but Alice could hear the woman's voice inside. She was giving someone a firm dressing-down, and her displeasure sounded clear, even through two inches of solid wood. Alice knocked and Phipps's voice stopped.

“Come!” she called.

Alice entered the book-lined office. The odd transcription machine stood at the ready beside the desk. Gray fog pressed against the windows as if it were trying to get in, turning afternoon into evening. Gavin, newly bathed and shaven and so damned handsome, came to his feet when Alice cleared the threshold. Susan Phipps, behind the desk, kept her seat. Her metal arm and brass eyepiece gleamed in the lamplight. Obviously, Gavin was the victim of the dressing-down, and she wondered what had gone wrong.

“As I was discussing with Agent Ennock, Miss Michaels, I'm torn,” Phipps said when Alice sat down. “On the one hand, I'm upset that you created such a spectacle in the City streets and called attention to our organization in a way that cost me enormous amounts of money to keep out of the newspapers. We don't do things that way in the Third Ward, and Agent Ennock here knows better than that.”

“Oh,” said Alice, nonplused. “I'm terribly sorry. I didn't realize.”

“Granted. Unlike Mr. Ennock here, you didn't go through Ward training. But that brings me to my other point. I do find myself impressed with you. No training, no plan, no support, and you still managed to bring in a clockworker on your first outing for the Ward.”

“I don't work for the Ward,” Alice replied primly.

“Not yet,” Phipps shot back. “And I do want to hear your version of what happened. You can speak freely. Your fiancé and everyone else outside these walls will never read the report, and as I already pointed out, I've arranged for the newspapers to remain silent.”

Alice glanced at Gavin, who nodded, and told the story, though she left out the true function of Norbert's machines. The transcription device clattered and thumped, and every word appeared on the paper scroll.

“Very well,” Phipps said when she finished. “Now I need to show you something downstairs. It won't take a moment.”

Before Alice could protest, Phipps swept her and Gavin out of the office and into the lift they had used last time. The cage sank into the stony fortress beneath the mansion, and Alice shifted her weight from one foot to the other, partly interested and partly wanting to get home. Norbert was no doubt worried, or furious, or both, and her first duty was to him.

“While you were freshening up, we brought Patrick Barton down to the clockworker level.” Phipps exited the lift with Alice and Gavin close behind. The chilly corridors stretched out in several labyrinthine directions. Clanks and thumps and shouts echoed against the stones. “Miss Michaels, you reported encountering Barton at a ball approximately one year ago.”

“That's right.”

“And he exhibited no strange behavior?”

“Not unless you count coming to the Greenfellow ball in a badly cut coat.”

They passed the Doomsday Vault, and the four armed guards came to attention.

“Did you notice any markedly increased intelligence, heightened reflexes, an increased interest in music, or sensitivity to poorly played or off-key music?”

“No, but I barely noticed him at all. He asked Louisa to dance, not me. Why are you asking all this again?”

“Because.” Phipps stopped at a particularly heavy door and extended her metal hand toward it. The first two of her six fingers extended with a sharp sound and created a key, which she inserted into the lock. “The laudanum has fully worn off, and this is the result.”

The door opened into a small cell with stained mattresses lining the walls and floor. Patrick Barton sat on the floor. He wore a dingy straitjacket. His hair stuck out in a dozen directions, his eyes were wild, and his straitjacket was chained to the rear wall. When the three of them entered, he shoved himself backward.

“My Boadicea has fallen,” he whimpered. “Money and machines, cash and mechanics. You sold your soul for coins, and now you walk with an angel who fell from the sky. Are you here to pull me into a velvet pit or fling me into unforgiving air?”

“He's insane,” Alice whispered.

“The earth travels through the sky and the sky pulls the earth.” Spittle ran down Barton's chin, and words flowed in a waterfall. “The earth thinks it moves in a straight line, but the eye of God warps space, so the earth travels in a circle, a spiral that grows a little smaller each time, moves us closer to hell, even though we think we're moving toward heaven.”

“He's in the final stage,” Gavin breathed. “How?”

“We don't know,” Phipps replied.

“Final stage? What's going on?” Alice demanded.

Barton screamed and threw himself at them. Alice leapt back with a cry. Barton didn't get very far. The straitjacket hobbled him, and the chain brought him up short. He growled and snarled like a dog on a leash.

“Out!” Phipps ordered.

Alice fled with the others right behind her. They slammed the door just as Barton began to howl. The heavy door cut the sound off. The trio stood in the hallway a moment, silent. Alice's knees were weak.

“I don't want to do that again,” she whispered at last. “I can't.”

“How long before he dies?” Gavin asked.

“Three days, perhaps a week,” Phipps said. “And that's puzzling. I don't know how much you know about clockworkers and the clockwork plague, Miss Michaels.”

“Not much,” Alice admitted uncomfortably. “They don't teach about it at finishing school, and clockworkers are . . . well, you know.”

“Insane, yes,” Phipps said. “And people fear and dislike them, often with good reason, so they don't discuss them in polite company. All right, listen—the Third Ward has made an extensive study of clockworkers and their pathology. Every case is different, but most follow a general pattern. When someone who is going to be a clockworker first catches the clockwork plague, their symptoms are very different. Most plague victims come down with fever and muscle tremors in the early stages. Those that survive are often scarred.”

Alice clenched her jaw. She remembered with absolute clarity when her father and mother and older brother came down with the fever and muscle tremors that heralded the clockwork plague, and she remembered the helpless terror she felt as her mother and brother worsened and died. Father had worsened as well, and then recovered, more or less. He never walked again, would never lift Alice above his head so she could see the Queen.

“The ones who don't die right away or survive with scarring almost have it worse,” Phipps continued heartlessly. “Their symptoms intensify until they include delirium, loss of muscle tone, thinning of the skin, pustules, and sensitivity to light, which result in what the public likes to call plague zombies. Eventually they die as well.”