Chapter Four
When Mina came down for breakfast, her parents were already seated at one end of the dining table, wearing enough layers to ward off the chill in the room. The gray early-morning sunshine trickling in through the windows seemed more like a drizzle, so that everything the pale light touched appeared damp.
Even her mother’s white hair seemed muted by it. Without glancing up from the newssheets spread across her father’s reading apparatus, she observed, “You forgot to wind your clock, Mina.”
Mina hadn’t thought she would need to. The night had been a sleepless one . . . except during the hour she was supposed to have risen. “Yes.”
“Are you in a hurry, then?”
“Not yet.” Newberry wouldn’t bring his cart around for another quarter hour.
From the sideboard, Mina selected a boiled egg and thinly sliced toast. Simple fare, perhaps, but Cook’s toast was unequaled anywhere—even her mother had not yet devised a machine that could replicate it. To Mina’s surprise, a length of sausage was leftover, given as payment after her father had infected the butcher’s newborn with nanoagents. If her brothers Henry and Andrew had still lived here, not even a smear of grease would have remained. Suddenly missing them acutely, she slid the sausage onto her plate and took the chair across from her mother.
She poured the cheap Liberé coffee and pretended not to notice as, on her left, her father looked up from the newssheets and subjected her to a quiet scrutiny—looking for bruises or stiffness in her movements, she knew. In the first years following the revolution, she’d tried to hide them, scuffling with her brothers as cover. Stupid, perhaps, because her father hadn’t been fooled. But she couldn’t bear the helpless anger in her father’s eyes every time she returned home with a puffy lip or a bruised cheek. At least the fights with her brothers let him do something, even if it was only a reprimand.
Fortunately, she hadn’t needed to cover any bruises of late—not since Newberry had been assigned to her. A giant hulk of a man following her about dissuaded anyone from striking her, no matter how much they hated the Horde.
And if not for Newberry, her brothers might never have felt they could leave—first the practical Henry, gone to Northampton to see if he could wrestle order and prosperity from an estate that no one in their family had seen for two hundred years, followed by Andrew, embarking on the first steps toward a career at sea. Her gaze fell on Andrew’s empty seat. Marco’s Terror should have reached the Caribbean by now, and so his letters would be arriving from the French Antilles within a few weeks. She wondered if he’d write of how much he hated the ship, or how much he loved it.
Strange, that she couldn’t guess. Unlike Henry, whose steely good sense rivaled their father’s, Andrew’s and Mina’s characters had been assembled from both parents—though neither were as high-strung as their mother, whose emotions even the Horde hadn’t been able to suppress. Typically, Andrew’s opinions and reactions mirrored Mina’s, but she couldn’t predict how he would find life aboard the ship. Would he chafe against the rigid order on the Terror , or revel in the freedom of the open seas and every new sight that his journey presented? And if it were both, which would win out over the other?
Whatever his response, she was certain of one thing: that he would be grateful for the opportunity to know whether it suited him, rather than forever wondering. Mina would always be similarly grateful to Hale—and for finding a job that so perfectly suited her.
Dead people of all sorts were more tolerable than most of those living.
Her father finished his silent examination and returned to his newssheets, clicking the page turner. Though faster by hand, anyone living with her mother soon learned the simple pleasure of watching a well-designed machine at work. A stylus with a rubber ball at its tip slowly pushed the paper over, treating Mina to a sideways view of the caricature of a Horde magistrate: rat-faced, his eyes nothing more than slits drawn with heavy slashes of a pen, and a wispy mustache drooped over loose, bulbous lips.
She looked down at her plate. Reading the story that accompanied the drawing was unnecessary; it had played out several times over the past months. The few Horde officials who hadn’t fled or been killed during the revolution had been imprisoned at Newgate for the past nine years. Now, they underwent trials for the horrors committed during the occupation. Thus far, all had been found guilty and sentenced to hang. No doubt this magistrate would, too.
When the page finished turning over, Mina looked up again. Her mother read along with her father, the newssheet a tiny upside-down reflection in her silver eyes; Mina couldn’t have hoped to discern the small print from the same distance, even reading right-side up. Not long after the Blacksmith had grafted the mechanical eyes, her mother had tried to explain how everything appeared through them. She’d mentioned telescopes, magnifying goggles, and the glow of a fire before giving up, frustrated by her inability to describe what she saw. The gist had been clear enough, however: Not only was her mother’s vision more acute, it was different. She saw not just in color and shapes, but temperatures. She’d stumbled around for almost a year—stumbled far more than she had while completely blind—before finally learning to interpret the images the new eyes gave her.
Mina had never asked what price the Blacksmith had put on her mother’s eyes, but after six years, the debt hadn’t yet been paid off. Her mother’s automata sold at his shops for enormous amounts, yet she received a pittance after the Blacksmith took his portion.
Her dead man’s arm had cost someone. Perhaps he or his family had money—but if he was still indebted, the Blacksmith would have information regarding the dead man’s recent whereabouts. Rumor was, if anyone missed a payment, the Blacksmith always found them.
Information about where the man had been might prove useful. All Mina needed, however, was a name.
The reading apparatus clicked again. As the stylus slowly turned the paper over, her father said, “Until your mother saw the blood on your dress, she’d thought that you’d bribed young Newberry to help you escape the Victory Ball.”
Mina laughed and saw her mother’s quick smile. No one could accuse her father of inefficiency. He could poke fun at them both with one statement.
His brown beard hid most of her father’s smile, but the corners of his mustache twitched as he continued, “Whereas I suspected that you put the blood there simply to convince your mother. It wasn’t fresh.”
Her father had probably examined the stains to make certain the blood wasn’t Mina’s. “It wasn’t. He’d been frozen for some time.” She glanced across the table at her mother. “Is the dress ruined?”
“Quite.” No censure filled her voice, only acceptance. She seemed downtrodden this morning. “We will see what Sally can salvage of the fabric.”
“Unfortunately, Newberry did not think to bring my wardrobe.” Mina looked down at her black trousers tucked into sturdy boots. She should have worn this to the ball. People might as well meet her as she truly was . . . though it hardly mattered. She could parade naked down Oxford Street, and no one would notice anything but her Horde features. She glanced to her father. “Were you able to speak with Mr. Moutten?”
The patients her father tended were often worse off than Mina’s family, and payment rarely came as money. Her father accepted anything—chickens, food, repairs—but asked for broken machines above all else, which her mother used to build the automata sold in the Blacksmith’s shops. Mina’s salary covered the bare necessities. After paying the taxes, which were hardly lower than the Horde had demanded, and wages for the cook and two maids—far fewer than the town house needed, even with most of the rooms closed up—all together Mina’s family earned just enough to scrape by.
But her father had heard that a bounder’s personal physician had fled back to the New World. To bring in more ready cash, he’d intended to recommend his services to the gentleman.
“I am,” he said, puffing himself up in parody and adopting a bounder’s flat accent, “a jolly good man to offer such a favor.”
A favor? That didn’t sound promising. “In exchange for what?”
“His good esteem? A reference?” He shook his head, his chest deflating to normal size. “I couldn’t say. But clearly, payment did not enter Moutten’s mind.”
Did they assume her father’s work was a hobby? Blast those thickheaded bounders. What in the blazes did they eat in Manhattan City? Air? Maybe the food fell from the trees and rolled onto golden plates.
Or maybe they thought the services of a Horde-trained physician weren’t worth anything. Arrogant bigots, those bounders were—the whole lot of them.
“Perhaps it’s for the best, however,” he continued evenly, and Mina didn’t know how he could remain so calm when steam all but spouted from her ears. “I would advise them all to infect themselves, and none of them want to hear that.”
Her mother lifted her chin, gesturing at the newssheets. “They’ll not be able to anyway, once the Free Party has their way.”
Unlike every nation in the New World, England hadn’t outlawed the practice of injecting someone with blood infected by the nanoagents. Any physician or blacksmith could perform the injection. The process posed no risk; some people contracted low-grade bug fever in the first hours, but Mina had never heard of anyone dying from the injection—and her father had infected thousands, most of them children.
But the health risks concerned the Free Party less than the nanoagents themselves, and had become the most divisive issue in the upcoming general election. And it shouldn’t have been so, but with the bounders reclaiming their seats and the influence of merchants on pocket boroughs, the Free Party had the buggers themselves arguing against their own interests. Political opponents debated whether a bugger should be able to hold office or inherit, citing the danger of a judge or a lawmaker whose decisions could be influenced by a radio signal. Pointing out that the Horde hadn’t controlled their thoughts did little to help, because the Horde had made King Edward a puppet, yanking on his strings so hard and so often that they’d ruined his mind.
Fear of control had become the Horde’s legacy, and the Free Party did little to dispel it. The paranoia had become so prevalent that Mina had even heard tales of a Black Guard—silent agents of the Horde who stole into buggers’ homes during the night, freezing their nanoagents and leaving them helpless, or taking others away to enslave.
Mina didn’t know how many letters her father had written to aristocrats and the influential merchants, asserting the need for common sense over fear, but he spent almost every evening composing them. When Parliament came into session again, he’d be occupied by matters in the White Chamber during the daytime hours—and tend to fewer patients.
So they’d tighten their belts again.
“I will do my best, dear. Perhaps we will win more over before the election.”
Her mother sighed and nodded. “And despite my efforts, I do not expect any new ladies at this evening’s League meeting. Mina, please tell us that you were more successful than we proved to be.”
She hadn’t been; she didn’t even know who had been murdered. But she was determined to change that.
“I met the Iron Duke and spent several hours at his home,” she told them, and although Mina didn’t look up from her plate, she felt the sudden intensity of their regard. “He knew who you were, Mother. He mentioned your League.”
Her mother gasped, hand flying to cover her heart. Her mouth opened and closed several times before she whispered, “You are not lying.”
Her mother could recognize when someone lied to her, detected through a change of skin temperature and the involuntary movements of facial muscles. Perhaps that was another reason for her melancholy. How many lies had been spoken to her face last night?
Now, a smile warmed her delicate features. Mina’s father said, “Look there, love. You’ve touched more people than you know.”
“It is the letter duplicating machine. I would never have time to write so many if it couldn’t record the movement of my pen.” She laughed suddenly. “If I continue sending the letters every week, perhaps he will join the League just to halt them.”
Mina grinned. Most likely, her mother would do exactly that. Glancing up, she found those silver eyes focused on her.
“And so what was your impression of him?”
“He is a formidable figure—very large, physically—but also intimidating in manner.” And he’d made her burn with both embarrassment and anger. “It is easy to see why so many captains surrendered their ships to him without a single shot fired. I would have.”
“No, Mina,” her father said. “You’d have fired back.”
The Iron Duke had taken a shot with his remark about her mother, but Mina hadn’t returned fire. She’d retreated. His statement had been either thoughtless or cruel, and Trahaearn didn’t strike her as a man who spoke without thinking.
So it had been cruelty, then—and she’d had enough of that in her lifetime. But unleashing her temper on him would have been foolish; retreat had been her smartest option. He’d had his fun, and now that she was out of his sight, he’d forget about her.
“I wouldn’t fire back if I were outgunned,” she said.
Her parents exchanged an odd glance. Her mother’s lips curved. “Yes, I imagine that he possesses a rather large cannon,” she said, spearing her sausage with a fork.
Her father’s cough sounded like a laugh.
Oh, blast. What had Mina started by mentioning the duke? But she could only blame herself, since she’d been the one to restore her mother’s good humor. “Perhaps. But after he looked at the cargo, I’m certain he’d lose interest.”
Her mother persisted. “Is he as handsome as the caricatures in the newssheets?”
Mina gave up. “Yes. Handsome and obliging. He rescued my glove from certain ruin.”
“Thank the blue heavens for him.” Not a trace of sarcasm tinted her mother’s response.
Her father’s mustache twitched. “He is still very much the hero.”
Mina frowned. Yes, he was.
But who didn’t think so?
The Blacksmith’s property in the Narrow stood as close to the Thames as possible without falling into it—and pieces of the buildings near the smithy often did. Situated at Limehouse’s south edge, the Narrow had once been a street. Now, it only resembled one, forming a twisting path between deteriorating buildings, with rubble spilling out over the cobblestone walks.
Mina instructed Newberry to drive as close to the Blacksmith’s as the piles of debris allowed, stopping the cart in front of a burned-out brewery and behind a steamcoach whose driver looked rough enough to scare away any thieves . . . if he didn’t steal the cart himself.
While Newberry locked the tires, she climbed out and looked down the Narrow, breathing through her mouth. The scent of the slaughterhouses across the river and the tanneries to the east lay heavy in the air, overwhelming even the smoke and the Thames itself. Small groups of laborers who hadn’t found work at one of the foundries or repairing a ship at the dry docks gathered along the walks, hoping that they’d be hired onto a day crew. A message runner darted past her—probably a child from the Crèche. Clean and bright-cheeked, he looked as out of place as Mina did.
The laborers didn’t eye him with the same suspicion and hatred. Mina gave them hardly a second glance as she passed their groups. They wouldn’t bother her—though not out of respect for her uniform or fear of Newberry trailing in her wake. The Blacksmith held the only authority here. But anyone coming to the Narrow likely had business with the Blacksmith, and no one dared interfere with that.
She looked back at the constable, recognizing his tension as he realized that his presence wasn’t what held the laborers back. Anticipating his unease, she’d made certain his hands would be occupied carrying the wooden chest full of ice, a mechanical arm, and a brain. If a Manhattan City constable walked into the Narrow with his hands on his guns, he might not even have the protection of the Blacksmith.
Newberry’s gaze searched the buildings. “Which one is it, sir?”
Mina pointed to a three-storied brick warehouse. Though weathered and dingy, the structure was well kept, the window glass intact. Tall chimneys released steam and smoke in a steady cloud.
“There’s no sign over the entrance. How do people find it?”
Mina assumed that by “people,” Newberry meant bounders. Everyone else knew where to go. The smithy had once housed the Horde’s modification shops, the only location in London more terrifying than the tower. “If they want what the Blacksmith offers badly enough, they’ll find it.”
Though some who found it weren’t always ready to go in. For those, the Hammer & Chain lay only thirty paces down the street, and they often found their courage at the bottom of a pint. Others went for the cheap food—or a fight. No matter what its patrons were looking for when they went into the Hammer & Chain, they were as likely to be tossed out as walk out.
But no one would have dared toss out the dark-haired giant who pushed through the doors and stepped into her path.
Trahaearn.
Mina’s gut clenched with the same split-second punch of fear that hit her when she glimpsed the tower. She forced her step not to falter, her hands not to fly to her weapons.
By the starry sky, she would not feel this.
She breathed deep, gathering her calm. Surely what she’d felt wasn’t fear, no matter how imposing he was, and despite her certainty that to have timed his exit so perfectly, he must have been lying in wait for her.
Surely it wasn’t fear. Dislike seemed far more probable.
As Mina halted, the bright-cheeked boy she’d seen earlier ducked from behind Trahaearn’s long overcoat, gold winking in his small fingers before disappearing into his pocket. Not a message runner, then, but a little spy. And the duke had been waiting for her. Now he stared down from his great height, his dark gaze searching her face. She didn’t give him anything to find but an enquiring arch of her right brow.
His eyes narrowed, as if she’d displeased him. Had he expected her to curtsy? To faint? His silence continued. Perhaps he’d forgotten that his rank and his actions demanded that he speak first. Almost amused now, she arched her left brow.
“Inspector Wentworth,” he finally said, and although his deep voice didn’t seem loud, it carried. Heads turned in his direction. Every laborer in a nearby group looked toward him, their expressions both wary and hopeful, as if they thought he might be here with work for the day. But they didn’t appear surprised, which told Mina that Trahaearn’s was a familiar face in the Narrow.
She inclined her head. “Your Grace.”
“You haven’t yet identified him.”
It wasn’t a question, and she had no doubt that he’d been updated with everyone else—and would continue to be updated. After Trahaearn learned the man’s identity, staying a step ahead of him would pose a problem. Perhaps it was best that he was here, then, so that Mina could see where he stepped.
“I have not,” she said. “Have you?”
“No.”
“And do you intend to dog my steps until we determine who he is?”
He smiled briefly, and she was reminded not of a dog, but the drawing of a timber wolf she’d seen in one of her father’s books, lean and hungry.
“Yes,” he said.
Sudden frustration ate at her amusement. “You know I can’t stop you.”
“Yes.” No gloating. Just fact.
“Then I ask that you don’t interfere.”
He glanced over his shoulder toward the Blacksmith’s. “My interference will keep you from waiting—and from overpaying.”
Did he know the Blacksmith? Or did Trahaearn assume his reputation would earn him special treatment?
Not that it mattered. That hadn’t been what she’d meant. She shook her head. “If I discover something that you don’t like—”
“You’re asking me not to kill him. I won’t promise that.”
She gritted her teeth. Should she try to convince a pirate of the importance of law and order? She might as well beat her head against the cobblestones.
“Very well.” She stepped around him, continuing on toward the Blacksmith’s. “Then we will race to see who will reach him first: me to arrest him, or you to carry out your brand of justice.”
“Not justice. I’ve no interest in that.” Trahaearn fell into step beside her, leaving Newberry to trail behind. “But I always protect what’s mine.”
And didn’t hesitate to destroy what wasn’t. “And if this man isn’t yours?”
“Then he’ll still be yours.”
Though his reply was exactly what she’d wanted to hear, Mina frowned. The determination in his tone bothered her—as if Trahaearn intended to follow this investigation through to the end, even if the dead man had no connection to him. Warily, she glanced over and found the duke watching her again.
“But I haven’t come just to learn his identity, inspector. Scarsdale told me that my final comment to you last night was . . . ill-considered.” His pause said that ill-considered was indeed Scarsdale’s word. “It pained you. I apologize.”
Perhaps all of that statement had been at Scarsdale’s prompting. Trahaearn didn’t strike her as a man who apologized often. She looked at him with suspicion. “You’re sorry?”
His jaw clenched before he said, “Yes.”
That had come with effort. Mina didn’t intend to make it any easier.
“You trampled on my mother’s honor, not mine. Her response when I was born was not about me, but what the Horde had done to her. If you are truly sorry, you will make it up to her—and you’ll give your support to her Reformation League.”
He frowned. “Her League will solve few problems.”
“I agree,” Mina said, and saw his surprise. “But it doesn’t hurt anyone, either. She advocates for responsibility and stability, and those who find it through marriage probably want to marry.”
“And you don’t?”
“My situation has never been the same as theirs.” Mina’s gaze sought out a group of laborers, a good portion of them women. Chances were, several of them lived together—and at their home, another woman watched over the children they’d borne. Women rarely left their babies at the crèches now, but few could work to support a family and raise it alone. Fewer even considered matrimony—the Horde had all but destroyed the institution among the lower classes by forbidding them to marry for two centuries. In the years since the Horde had left, communal families consisting mostly of females had become more common than a man and woman living together.
“My mother wants to reintroduce an option that the Horde took away, but unlike the Horde, she won’t force it upon anyone. If you simply mention the League to the right people—your Scarsdale will know who they are—your support will go further than a thousand letters. Or you could attend one of her meetings. She’s holding one tonight, if you wish to come.”
Perhaps she only imagined the fleeting expression that suggested the wolf had his foot caught in a trap, but having sat through more of her mother’s meetings than she cared to count, it buoyed her spirits immeasurably.
They reached the Blacksmith’s warehouse. Mina passed by the storefront entrance, where clerks sold automata to those who could afford it. Few in the Narrow could. The Blacksmith’s shop on the Strand was much larger, and one of the most popular destinations for bounders in the city. Curious, Mina slowed, watching the duke. He didn’t pause at the shop, but continued smoothly on toward the smithy entrance, out of sight around the corner.
All right. She would assume that he was familiar with the Blacksmith—which begged the question of why he’d waited.
“Why did you bother?”
He glanced down at her, brows drawing together. “With what?”
“Apologizing,” she said. “Have you apologized to the families of men you’ve killed, the women you’ve violated? To every merchant and government you’ve ever stolen from? Yet now you are sorry for a mere insult. To what purpose? You can obtain the information you want without it.”
The Iron Duke pivoted into her path and faced her. Mina spun toward the brick wall to avoid crashing into him, stumbling over debris. What in blue blazes? Her temper leapt. She opened her mouth, looked up—and froze with her back against the building, her eyes locked on his, certain that if she glanced away, he’d cross the distance between them.
He didn’t appear angry. His expression remained detached, unreadable. Yet she could almost feel the control he wielded over himself—and over her, under threat of it being unleashed.
Perhaps she ought not to have recounted his crimes. Softening accusations of murder and rape by calling them killing and violation probably wasn’t a distinction he recognized.
She heard Newberry’s heavy approach—and his concern. “Inspector?”
The look Trahaearn sent to Newberry halted the constable midstride, the box of ice secure against his chest. Uncertain, the constable looked to Mina. She shook her head, telling him to remain where he was, and met Trahaearn’s detached gaze again.
In a low voice, he asked, “Do you have a man, inspector?”
“A man?” she echoed, fearing that she understood him. He’d laid in wait and apologized for this? A laugh bubbled up, dissipating her fear. Did he truly imagine that an insult and a lover would be her only objections? Oh, but Mina hoped she was wrong. “A man like Constable Newberry?”
“No. A man in your bed.”
She had understood. Damn his arrogance. “The only man who interests me is the one whose brain and arm Newberry is carrying. I will not waste your time by pretending otherwise, Your Grace. I ask that you do not waste mine.”
“I wouldn’t. So tell me whether you have a man.”
As if it would matter to someone like him. “And if I do?”
“I’ll discover what he gives you. Then I’ll offer more.”
Ah, she should have realized; this was a business transaction. Last night, when he’d removed her glove, she’d seen his lust. It wasn’t here now—and that made rejecting him surprisingly easy, despite his power and the trouble he could make for her.
“I don’t have a man.” When she saw his triumph, Mina added, “But you have nothing to offer me, sir. I answer to no one. I must make time only for myself. Can you offer better than absolute freedom?”
“The daughter of a bugger earl would never have anything of the sort.”
Well, that was true enough. But she came closer to freedom now than she could ever hope to after sharing his bed. “And you’re a duke, so you have even less freedom to offer, no matter how deep your pockets.”
His expression hardened, like heated steel plunged into an ice bath. But even as she tensed, wondering if she’d finally gone too far, he looked away from her.
It was as if a cage door had been opened. Mina exhaled softly and continued along the walk. Reaching the smithy entrance, she stepped through a solid wall of heat and noise. No smell of the tanneries and slaughterhouses here—only smoke, sweat, and oil. Stokers wearing leather aprons and gloves shoveled coal into the furnaces squatting along the wall. Enormous boilers hissed steam, and the ring of metal hammering against metal came from every direction of the smithy.
Mina started for the stairs at the other end of the warehouse, passing the repair and refitting stations. Standing between two brick columns, a blacksmith gestured for the woman in front of him to walk. With her threadbare skirts hiked up to reveal skeletal prosthetic legs, she took a step. The metal ball of her right heel dragged, scraping loudly over the stone floor. In the next station, a tinker concentrated over pneumatic cylinders protruding from a man’s shoulders like a stunted pair of tubed wings—routine maintenance for a dockworker that cost less than waiting until something broke. Beside him, a female blacksmith tested the fingers of an elderly woman’s new prosthetic. Tears glistened on her wrinkled cheeks; she clutched to her breast a rusted forearm, with the Horde’s sewing apparatus and pincers still attached. Though they could trade the old limbs in, most took their prosthetics home. Even knowing what the Horde had done, it was difficult letting part of themselves go—and that woman had probably worn an awl and pincers longer than Mina had been alive.
The blacksmith working on the old woman’s hand looked up. She shouted to the tinker watching over her shoulder, then jerked her head in Mina’s direction.
The girl jogged toward her, pushing back her welding goggles as she drew close. Her mouth dropped open when she spotted Mina; Mina’s lips parted in surprise. The girl had Horde blood in her. The tinker looked Mina up and down, then up again.
Mina stared back. Grease streaked the girl’s hands, but her black hair and clothes were clean. Probably from the Crèche, the girl couldn’t have been more than ten years old, but she already wore a tinker’s chain tattooed around her wrist. When she became a blacksmith, a hammer would be tattooed below the chain, completing the guild’s mark.
The girl looked away from Mina, focusing on the man behind her. “The Blacksmith said to go up soon as you arrived, captain.”
Captain. Even here? Mina didn’t glance back at him. She turned toward the stairs, but the girl shook her head.
“The quick way,” she said, gesturing to the back of the warehouse. Mina walked alongside the tinker, noting how the girl watched her from the corner of her eye. Mina was little better at hiding her interest than the girl was.
“What do they mean?” The girl nodded at the epaulettes decorating Mina’s shoulders.
“Detective Inspector.”
A thoughtful expression came over her small face. “Is that what they call you?”
“Just ‘inspector.’ ” Which was better than most of the names Mina was called. This girl probably heard them, too. “It’s almost as good as ‘blacksmith.’”
“Oh?”
“A blacksmith can go anywhere. A detective inspector only goes where the dead bodies are.”
“But there aren’t any dead people here today.”
Mina glanced over her shoulder at the chest Newberry carried. “That’s why I brought my own.”
They reached the lift. The shaft rose between two enormous exhaust fans installed near the high ceiling before disappearing into the next level of the warehouse. The girl slid aside the grating and turned, holding the gate open.
“The Blacksmith is on the third level, then all the way to the east wall!” she called over the noise of the fans.
Mina nodded, but didn’t board the lift. “What’s your name, tinker?”
The girl’s eyes widened. “Anne.”
“So it will be Anne Blacksmith. That name will treat you well.” And the Blacksmith’s guild tattoo would keep her safe. “But if it doesn’t, I’m at police headquarters in Whitehall. Ask for Wentworth.”
Anne nodded, her round cheeks dimpling with a huge smile. Mina stepped into the lift, standing to the side to make room for Trahaearn and Newberry. The Iron Duke boarded and closed the cage behind him. Newberry abruptly stopped, staring at them through the grating.
Trahaearn locked the gate. “It will be too crowded and over its weight capacity, constable. I’ll send it back down for you.”
Mina looked at him in disbelief. Though it’d be a tight fit, the lift could accommodate her assistant. Then the duke glanced down at her, wearing that cold detachment she’d begun to hate, and Mina understood.
She’d rejected his offer outside and put an end to the matter. But the Iron Duke wasn’t done.
Anger balled tight and high in her throat. Swallowing it down, she looked through the grating at Newberry. “We’ll meet you on the third level, constable. Anne, will you show Constable Newberry to the stairs?”
As soon as they turned to go, Trahaearn started the lift. Metal scraped as he threw the lever forward. Mina stared at the gate’s flat steel panel, almost blind with rage.
So this is how it would be? When pirates took over a ship, they usually gave the crew a choice between keeping their positions under a new captain, abandonment, or death. What choice would he give to her? She accepted his offer, or he ruined her family? Or would he simply rape her here?
The noise of the fans assaulted her ears, then was muffled as they rose past the second level floor. Unlike the smithy below, this level had been partitioned. An empty corridor led from the lift to the rooms where the Blacksmith grafted his mechanical flesh to living tissue, and where those undergoing the excruciating process waited while the flesh grew. Mina’s mother had waited in one of these rooms, but had forbidden Mina and her brothers from accompanying her. Instead, her father had held her hand through each step, carried her home each night—and every morning, he’d had to convince her mother to return to the Blacksmith’s and finish it. By the end of the week, he’d been as pale and haggard as her mother.
Remembering that, Mina’s anger built into resolution. What could Trahaearn do to her family that the Horde hadn’t already done? Nothing. And her family had always fought back, always survived. The only danger he posed was to Mina’s person and her career—but no matter the damage he caused, she would survive that, too.
She looked up. The roof of the lift had almost reached the next floor. The duke still hadn’t spoken. Her tension began to loosen its grip. Had she mistaken his intentions, then? Perhaps he just hadn’t wanted to be crowded.
Metal scraped, and the lift jolted to a halt. Mina stumbled forward before catching her balance—and realized that he’d timed it perfectly. They’d stopped halfway between the floors. The lift’s roof concealed them from above, and if anyone entered the corridor below, the gate blocked the view of the lift’s interior.
Damn him. Damn him.
Mina wouldn’t make it out of the Narrow alive if she shot him, but he couldn’t know she wouldn’t be crazy enough to do it. She pushed back the sides of her overcoat to expose her weapons.
He remained silent, staring at her from the opposite side of the lift, his dark gaze searching her face. Was he waiting for her to protest, or just trying to intimidate her?
She was afraid. Not of him, or what he could do to her body. Her bugs could heal bruises and tears, inside and out. But by forcing her, by taking her choice, he’d rip away everything that he’d given when he’d destroyed the Horde’s broadcasting tower.
Never would Mina allow that. And on second thought, maybe she was crazy enough. Her hands slid from her hips to her holstered weapons. His gaze fell and lingered on her weapons—or her thighs. She repressed the urge to let her overcoat fall closed. He looked up again, meeting her eyes. Mina arched a brow.
His slow smile didn’t soften his hawkish features. “You’ll come to my bed. And you won’t think it a waste of time.”
“You’re wasting it now. Start the lift.”
“A blacksmith earns more than an inspector, yet you didn’t say that to the girl. You placed the ability to go anywhere ahead of money.” As he spoke, his detachment turned to speculation, but his gaze never wavered from her face. “I can offer you enough that you’d be able to go anywhere you’d like, too.”
Anger and unease mixed with surprise. He’d listened to her conversation with Anne? She’d have to be careful never to reveal anything of herself in his vicinity again, not if he’d use it against her.
“I’m happy where I am,” she said. “Except I’d rather be ascending.”
His short laugh made her stomach drop, her fingers tighten on her weapons. He crossed the lift in two strides, each step rattling the cage around them. Mina held her ground. He stopped with only a few inches between them—and blast his monstrous height, the top of her head barely reached his shoulder.
What did he mean to prove by stopping so close? Did he intend for Mina to tilt her head back, making it appear as if she lifted herself to his kiss? Resolutely, she stared ahead at the small brass buckles that fastened his waistcoat—and suddenly realized that her refusal to look up made her seem afraid.
No matter what her response was, she couldn’t win.
She stiffened as his palm cupped her nape. Hard fingers tilted her chin up; he lowered his head. Mina jerked her face to the side. She felt his rough laughter against her neck, the gentle touch of his lips to her throat. His hand tightened in her hair, holding her still as he inhaled, as if drawing in her scent.
Tremors started low in her belly. Fear, she recognized. Anger, she welcomed. But not the burn beneath her skin, so similar to when he’d taken her glove.
He lifted his head, but didn’t release her. His thumb brushed her bottom lip. “You will accept me. And now I will know you, even if you come to me in the dark.”
Know her? Arrogant, insufferable knacker. He knew nothing about her.
And she didn’t need her weapons to get him away from her. Not when he was so stupid as to come this close.
Her hand shot to the front of his breeches, making claws of her fingers and trapping his genitals in a tight grip. He froze. As if testing, she hefted the firm weight she found. Heavy, but so very delicate.
She bared her teeth. “And even in the dark, now I’ll know that I’m ripping off the right cods.”
His eyes narrowed, and the hot interest she saw in his gaze sent shivers skittering down her spine. That wasn’t just business now. She tightened her grip.
“Back away from me, Your Grace.”
He suddenly grinned. The thick flesh beneath his breeches stirred, hardening against her palm. Mina snatched her hand away.
The duke stepped back—but not, Mina thought, in retreat. He looked too amused and too self-satisfied for that. Wary, she watched him return to the opposite side of the lift and throw the lever forward.
“I’d have offered you a job.”
Mina blinked. “What?”
“Make no mistake, inspector: I intend to have you under me, in one way or another. It didn’t need to be in my bed, though that was my preference. But if you refused me, I planned to offer you a position on my staff, with a salary only a fool would turn down.”
As much as Mina loved her work, she wasn’t a fool. And she could tolerate five years of employment by an insufferable knacker—time enough for her mother to pay off the Blacksmith, for Henry to make a go of their Northampton estate, for Andrew to buy a lieutenant’s commission. When she and her family had a comfortable cushion and no longer pinched every penny, the dead would still be waiting at the end of it, and she could return to the police force.
“What position?”
“My interests span six continents. We’d have found something that suited your talents.” He shrugged. “But it no longer matters, inspector. Only your bed will do now.”
Damn and blast. Jaw set, Mina faced forward, staring blindly out over the gate. Why did he still intend to pursue her? Somehow, she’d made a critical error. She wouldn’t have thought that threatening a man’s privates would encourage him, but—Oh, blue heavens.
She’d fired back. Though she’d been outgunned, she’d challenged the Iron Duke.
So she was a fool. And now she would stay out of his way—she’d run, if necessary—until he forgot about it.
She was already unlocking the gate when Trahaearn stopped the lift on the third level. His hand clamped over the steel before she could slide it open.
His voice was low. “I warn you, inspector. The next time I have you alone, I’ll have you. Your mouth, at the least—and more, if you offer it.”
She wouldn’t. “We’ve both lived many years in London, and our paths never crossed. After today, I cannot imagine we’ll meet again or have reason to be alone.”
“You’ll go wherever there are dead bodies.” He released the gate. “I can arrange for several to be found.”
Mina choked on a laugh. He would be like her mother, sending out letters until the recipients gave in. She hoped he did use bodies, then. With every one, her resolve would harden against him.
Pushing aside the grating, she abandoned the lift and came upon Newberry standing in the middle of a large room, blushing a fiery red and unable to meet her eyes. Frowning, Mina looked round and saw why.
The devices in this room weren’t sold in the public shops, but by special arrangement. A low chair supported a rubber phallus attached to a piston, which would pump when the user pushed on a pedal. A similar device sat next to it, designed to function with the woman in a standing position. Various others obviously took two people to operate, with suction cups and pistons driven by complicated gear mechanisms.
Trahaearn stopped beside her, his gaze once again cold and disinterested as it skimmed the equipment. She truly, truly hated that look.
“That one might serve your needs, Your Grace,” she said, and Newberry made a noise like a skewered eel when she gestured to a life-sized automaton featuring a rubber vagina and hips that swiveled. Though Mina felt sorry for the poor man, she could not resist pointing to another device. “But I suggest you do not try that one. A man hung himself on a similar machine last year. His mother suspected his wife of murder, but he’d simply been too eager, and strapped himself in before she returned from the market. Before the wife returned, that is. Not the mother.”
Without expression, Trahaearn turned away from her. “The Blacksmith’s laboratories are in this direction.”
Could a man who boldly propositioned a woman in a lift so quickly become a prude? She frowned, looking after him, but another wretched sound had her swinging around to check on her assistant.
“Breathe, Newberry. If you faint in the Blacksmith’s laboratory, only the stars above know what might be grafted to your body when you wake up.”
Mina didn’t know when the Blacksmith had come to England. Years before the revolution, rumors had begun to circulate that a man in London could manipulate the advanced Horde technology that had created the nanoagents, creating mechanical flesh from it—advanced technology, which was forbidden outside of Xanadu, the Horde capital. But perhaps those rumors had just been wishful thinking, like the tales of a Horde rebellion that would destroy the empire from within.
The rumors of a Horde resistance had proven false—but the Blacksmith might very well have been the source of the other tales. Before the fires of the revolution had cooled, he’d already carved out his territory in the Narrow, and defended it fiercely.
But he rarely had to fight for it. Instead, his weapons included the incredible amounts of money from his shops—much of which he poured into the Crèche and the industrial guilds—and the unwavering loyalty he earned by offering prosthetic repairs and replacement parts for less than most blacksmiths could. For those laborers who couldn’t afford even his rates, he traded on favors. There were few people who had passed through the Blacksmith’s shop who didn’t feel as if they still owed him, even if they’d paid their debt in full or completed the task he’d asked of them.
And for those who didn’t feel loyalty, and those who weren’t indebted, there were always those who feared him.
From behind her, she heard Newberry’s step falter when the Blacksmith emerged from a laboratory into the corridor. Mina had tried to prepare the constable by describing the Blacksmith’s appearance, but she supposed preparation was impossible—just as most people who’d been told about her mother’s eyes still reacted with shock when they saw her.
The Blacksmith had the same silver eyes, but the modification hadn’t stopped there. Every inch of skin not covered by his shirtsleeves and brown trousers was the pale gray of mechanical flesh, shaped to mimic human features. The effect, Mina had to admit, was uncanny. With steel prosthetics, the difference between the human parts and the machine was obvious. Even prosthetics made of mechanical flesh, sculpted to match the person’s natural limbs in everything but color, didn’t generate a shiver of unease on the first glance. But when it was the face—the whole face—something beyond the hairless gray skin seemed wrong, even if Mina couldn’t have pointed to a feature that didn’t look and move as it should. Perhaps it was simply not knowing whether the face that the Blacksmith owned was his. Had he modeled the broad forehead and high cheekbones on his natural features, or did they serve a different function?
That unsettling effect was compounded by his appearance denying any attempt to place him—and Mina thought that most disturbed anyone first meeting him. He could have been an American native or the Horde, or from the islands in the South Seas. He could have had Liberé blood, descended from the Africans who’d managed to flee the Horde on French ships, mixed with European or the few Russians who’d escaped to the New World, instead of running north to the Scandinavian countries.
But although the Blacksmith’s lineage was impossible to guess, his origins weren’t. Mina had once met a man from Australia—the Japanese districts in the north, rather than the southern territories that teemed with smugglers—and she thought the Blacksmith’s accent resembled his.
To her surprise, he and the duke clasped forearms in greeting, as if no formality existed between them. That impression was strengthened when the Blacksmith simply said, “Trahaearn.”
“Blacksmith,” the duke replied, dashing Mina’s hope that she might learn his real name.
Maybe he didn’t have one, however. Many children raised in the Horde’s crèches weren’t given family names. Most named themselves, as Trahaearn probably had, or made their occupation a surname. Perhaps “blacksmith” was his only identity.
“Inspector.” The Blacksmith looked to Mina before his mirrored gaze settled on Newberry. “You share the same nanoagents.”
“My father’s,” Mina said. “He infected us both.”
“Yes, I recognize them. He assisted me during your mother’s operation. He’s a skilled physician.”
Mina would make a point to repeat that to her father later. “Yes.”
The Blacksmith nodded and approached Newberry, taking the heavy ice box from him. The bugs made everyone strong; even Mina could have carried it braced against her chest. The Blacksmith tucked it under his arm like a pillow.
To Mina’s disappointment, he led them into an office, not a laboratory. Still, she had plenty to look at while he set the chest on a desk. A tall armored suit stood in the corner, less clunky than the Royal Marines’ steelcoats, too small for the Blacksmith to wear—and probably far too heavy for anyone to walk in without a boiler to operate the limbs. A curious device sat on a shelf: a smooth, foot-long spike atop a solid cube. It didn’t seem to have any moveable parts, but it might have been a puzzle bank, which unfolded and reshaped itself when the right combination was dialed in. Next to it lay a half-constructed model of a kraken, its tentacles made of mechanical flesh—and a dull gray, obviously lacking electrical input.
In humans, that input came from the nervous system and was delivered by the bugs. Without electrical impulses to power it, however, the mechanical flesh remained as immovable as a metal slab.
At the desk, the Blacksmith lifted the arm from the ice chest. His frown creased the smooth gray skin around his mouth. “The nanoagents are dead.”
“So is he,” Trahaearn said.
“Yes. But there should be residual activity.” He reached for a battery of Kleistian jars and connected the nodes to the ragged end of the shoulder, where wires blended into flesh. A spark arced between the contact points. The Blacksmith’s frown deepened. “How long was he dead?”
“I don’t know,” Mina told him. “He was frozen.”
He scooped the brain out of the ice, holding it cupped in his palms. The intense focus of his silvery eyes reminded Mina of her mother’s—looking at the brain on a scale few humans would ever see. So small were the nanoagents that Mina couldn’t hope to observe them, even with a microscope.
But the Blacksmith saw more than her mother did. He could detect and interpret the last electrical signals the nanoagents had received from the visual regions of the brain, seeing the final images that the dead man had seen.
Mina didn’t think that he was seeing them now, however. A line had formed between his brows, as if he were baffled.
He glanced at her. “What was the state of the body?”
“Frozen, but mostly uninjured. Some trauma from the fall from the airship. If he’d been injured before his death, the impact destroyed the evidence.”
Shaking his head, the Blacksmith slid the brain back into the box. “The nanoagents are dead,” he repeated.
Mina didn’t understand. “Like a battery will fail?”
“No. Even completely drained, they should have responded to the electrical impulse. They didn’t.”
“Have they been utterly destroyed?” She didn’t even know what the bugs looked like; she could hardly imagine them broken. “Did they shatter in the fall?”
“They haven’t been physically destroyed. All of their components are in order, but they’ve stopped functioning. They’re inert.”
All right. She’d accept that, and move on. “Would that kill a man?”
“Yes. Immediately, if they were all deactivated. If only some were destroyed, he might recover, but the dead nanoagents would act as poison in his system. He’d probably contract bug fever as the remaining nanoagents tried to heal him—and possibly die of the fever.” The Blacksmith paused, examining the arm and brain again. “All of this man’s are dead.”
“What could kill the bugs? A signal that could turn them off—like disconnecting a wire?” Mina gestured to his battery of Kleistian jars.
The Blacksmith looked at her, and she saw her uneasiness mirrored in his eyes. “No. There is no ‘off.’ Not as long as the host is alive.”
Trahaearn stepped closer to the desk. “Do you know what could do this?”
“No.”
Then they desperately needed to know where this man had come from. “Do you know who it is?”
“Yes.” The Blacksmith looked to Trahaearn, who seemed to still—as if a message had passed between them.
Trahaearn’s face hardened. “Who?”
The Blacksmith glanced at Mina.
Interpreting that look as well, Trahaearn said, “You can tell her.”
You’ll damn well tell me. Mina held her tongue with difficulty.
“It’s Baxter’s grandson.”
Baxter? Mina looked at him blankly. The name meant something. But what?
It meant something to the Iron Duke, too. After a moment of absolute stillness, he turned and strode for the door.
Oh, blast. Whoever it was, he was going after them.
Mina hurried into the corridor, calling behind, “Newberry, please collect the parts and find us!”
Trahaearn hadn’t slowed. Running, Mina finally caught up at the stairs. “Your Grace? What does the name mean to you?”
Without even looking at her, he started down the stairs. Cursing, Mina followed, jogging to keep up with his long stride as he reached the ground floor and strode into the street, trying desperately to recall why the name seemed so familiar. Baxter, Baxter . . .
Oh, blue heavens. The captain who had conscripted the Iron Duke from a slave ship’s crew into the navy had been a Baxter. He was an admiral now . . . whose grandson, Roger Haynes, captained the most famous ship in the Royal Navy: Marco’s Terror.
Mina’s heart almost lurched out of her chest. Her head swam, and she slowed, dizzy.
Andrew was on that ship.
And her only hope of knowing what had happened to him was still walking away. She caught up to Trahaearn again as he passed the Hammer & Chain.
“Was that Roger Haynes? Did that man come off of Marco’s Terror?”
He didn’t stop. Damn him. Mina tugged at his coat sleeve, then pulled harder when he didn’t acknowledge her.
“Trahaearn! Was that Haynes?”
The duke paused, looked down at her. Deliberately, he gripped her shoulders and steered her back against the pub’s brick wall, holding her there for a long second. As if satisfied, he let her go and walked away.
Mina shook her head in disbelief. Did he think she would remain here, as if magnetized to the building?
Farther along the Narrow, the steamcoach driver left his bench and opened the carriage door. Newberry’s cart would never catch up to that vehicle, but Mina would leap onto the back and hang on through the streets, if necessary. She waited for a drunk leaving the pub to stagger past her, preparing to sprint for the coach.
She ignored the drunk’s muttered “jade whore”—but the rough hawking noise warned her. Mina spun to the side just in time. The glob of spit flew past her cheek and splattered against the bricks.
Almost sick with anger, Mina balled her fists, turning to stare at the drunk. Cheeks ruddy, he returned her glare through bleary, hate-filled eyes. A dockworker, his prosthetic arms and shoulders had been reinforced with pneumatic tubes. Strong, but slow—and probably why he hadn’t hit her.
And she’d have loved to thrash him, but had no time. Trahaearn’s steamcoach engine had started up—
A dark figure suddenly blocked her view, then whipped around. The drunk slammed into the bricks beside her, Trahaearn’s hands fisted in his jacket. The man’s feet dangled six inches above the ground.
Gone was the maddening detachment. Fury paled the duke’s skin and sharpened the angles of his face, as if an icy lathe had passed over his features.
The drunk shouted before abruptly falling silent, recognizing Trahaearn—or just recognizing the danger he was in.
Trahaearn said quietly, “Pay for it.”
The command sent unease shivering down her spine. Despite her own anger, Mina couldn’t let him do anything to this man. And they had more pressing problems, anyway.
This drunk didn’t matter. Andrew did.
“An apology is enough,” she said.
The drunk’s eyes widened as he looked from her to Trahaearn. “Is she your woman?”
The duke’s gaze raked over her, settling on her face. “Yes.”
No, Mina thought, her heart sinking. How fast would his answer get around? But it wasn’t worth fighting over now. Only Andrew.
“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t realize.” The man’s lips trembled before widening into a grin. He chuckled. “I see. You’re still giving it to the Horde, eh—”
The drunken laugh cut off when Trahaearn faced him again, his expression darkening.
“Apologize to her.”
The humor drained from the man’s face. “You’ll have to strike me dead, sir.”
Smoking hells. Would he? Mina grabbed Trahaearn’s arm, her fingers wrapping around biceps of steel. She couldn’t pull him away.
And she could see Newberry coming, making his way down the Narrow with the ice chest in his hands, but she couldn’t ask the constable to wrestle the duke back. She had to stop this now.
“Trahaearn. Please.” She felt him tense, and hoped that meant he’d heard her, or was reacting to her holding on to him—not that he was preparing to kill the man. “We’ve more important matters to attend to.”
His jaw clenched. The drunk’s prosthetics scraped over brick as he lowered the man to his feet. “Get gone.”
He didn’t wait to see if the man listened. He turned to Mina. His hand lifted to her face, tilting her chin as if searching for bruises.
“Baxter,” she reminded him. “Will he be at the Admiralty in town, or the shipyards at Chatham?”
“Chatham.” He let go of her chin and started for the steamcoach.
“You’re headed there now?”
“Yes.”
All right, then. She glanced over at Newberry as he drew even with her. “Give that chest to the duke’s driver, then return to the Blacksmith’s. Use his wiregram to let Hale know that we’ve identified the body as Roger Haynes off Marco’s Terror. I’m leaving for Chatham to speak with Admiral Baxter.”
A flicker of shame and disappointment crossed the constable’s face, but his “Yes, sir” was as steady as always.
She turned for the steamcoach. Trahaearn was already seated inside the carriage, but the driver was at the door, holding it open—clearly waiting for her.
Tagging along next to her, Newberry said, “I’m sorry I wasn’t at your side, sir, when that cur turned on you—”
“You followed my orders, Newberry. You’ve nothing to be sorry for.” She paused at the steamcoach door and looked back at him. An ill-fed puppy looked less mournful than Newberry did. “Hurry along, constable—and catch up with us at Charing Cross station. Chances are, the train will depart late, and you’ll be able to accompany us.”
He brightened. “Yes, sir.” Looking into the carriage, he added, “Thank you, sir.”
The duke gave a short nod. Mina clambered into the coach and took the bench across from him—then immediately wished she hadn’t when his gaze settled on her, and didn’t move away.
He smiled slightly. His focus shifted to her lips.
“We’re alone, inspector,” he said softly.
The bench seemed to fall out from under her bottom. Somehow, she’d walked right into this—but she wouldn’t let him make good on his threat to kiss her. “Your driver is just outside, sir.”
“Outside, yes. So we’re alone.”
Damn him. “If you make a move toward me, I’ll shoot you with enough opium to lay out an ox.”
“Would you wake me up when we reached Chatham?”
“I’d leave you in the gutter by the station.”
“Then I’ll wait until we’ve boarded the locomotive.” He grinned. “I always hire a private car.”
“And I always wear my weapons.”
His laugh was low and deep. As if making himself comfortable, he stretched his legs out and crossed his booted feet at the ankles. His breeches pulled tight over his thighs. His gaze still didn’t leave her face.
She forced herself not to avert her eyes, and not to fidget under that piercing stare.
They only had a drive across town to Charing Cross, then a journey east to Chatham. Not far, measured in miles . . . but Mina suspected that this was going to be a very long trip.