Captain Gravenor’s Airship Equinox (Steampunk Smugglers) (12 page)

“Your inventions,” he murmured.

“Quite.”

His pulse slowed to normal.

“Be quiet now. There are a cluster of farmhouses up ahead,”
One said, after another half mile. “Almost a little town, since there is a public
house as well, and I know lots of the families have men enlisted with the
Blockaders.”

The other two took his advice and remained silent. They had
followed One and moved to the main road as it was the dead of night, sometime
after midnight. Brecon thought they had at least three hours, probably more,
before the sky began to brighten.

None of the farmhouses had lights in the windows, but Brecon
was displeased to see lighted windows at the public house. He could kill for a
glass of ale right now, but it wasn’t worth his own life.

Just as they crept by the door, One grabbed his arm and
pulled him into the doorway of the public house. Philadelphia stopped in the
road.

“Keep going!” Brecon said, but she stood on the road, gaping
at them both.

One put his beefy forearm across Brecon’s throat. “This is
for believing my sister to be a whore.”

~
*~

CHAPTER SEVEN

One pushed his arm against Brecon’s windpipe, sneering. Brecon
grabbed at the free trader’s steely arm with both hands, fighting for air. His
human hand was no match for the enormous lout, and he began to see spots. One
laughed at him, pouring a miasma of onion breath into his tearing eyes. Fighting
for oxygen, Brecon tried to remember how to move his wrist to get a pincer
grasp with his brass hand. His head scraped against the splintered wood of the
door as he fought, his boots thumping repeatedly against the surface as he
tried to gain some advantage. Just as the spots were widening behind his
eyelids, he felt the jarring sensation bolt up to his elbow as the brass hand
locked on One’s arm, tiny motors whirring. He twisted his wrist with his last
bit of strength, attempting to tighten the grip without the feedback of touch
he would have received from his amputated hand.

One howled and let go, grabbing his injured arm with his
fingers. Blood welled between the sausage-like digits. Brecon fell hard against
the door, not the least bit sorry he’d drawn blood from the traitorous swine. The
door opened behind him and he fell in as someone attempted to step out.

“What’s this?” asked a man in a clerical collar, frowning
down at him. “A Brass Hand?”

Philadelphia rushed forward. “Oh, Vicar, a little
compassion, please!”

“Excuse me?” The man frowned, his handlebar moustache
twitching. “You are not from this area.”

 Brecon clutched his throat, trying to get his breathing
back to normal so he could conquer the dizziness.

Philadelphia twisted her hands together. “His watch officer,
such a fine man, offered my man leave so we could be married.”

The vicar raised an eyebrow. Brecon got to his feet in an
inelegant manner, using the fist of his good hand to push himself upright.

She clutched her belly. “I’m a wicked girl, I know, but our
child shouldn’t suffer. Please, will you marry us so he can return to his airship
before the captain notices he’s gone?”

The vicar frowned disapprovingly. “This is highly irregular.
The marriage won’t even be legal. Why didn’t you take care of this in Cardiff?
A church there, or the civil registry?”

“I would not bore such an important man as yourself with our
petty problems. If we are married in the eyes of the Lord, it is good enough
for me for now. And my parents,” she added for good measure. “When he gets a
proper leave we’ll call the banns and everything.”

“You do not look like you are carrying a babe.”

“I’ve been ever so sick,” she said pitifully. “That is why.
I must marry before my shame is evident to my grandmother.”

The vicar sighed. Brecon glanced at One, who stood in the
road, and wondered why he wasn’t protesting. Instead, the man had a look of
high amusement on his face, as if the entire thing had been a play written and
directed by him. But his actions had been no shade of humorous. Was he acting
alone or under the captain’s orders?

“I take it that this is the woman’s family?” the vicar
asked, pointing at One.

Brecon tried to speak, but nothing came out. He swished
saliva around his mouth, trying to moisten it enough to speak. “A cousin. He
fetched me.”

The vicar sniffed. “It appears you are a reluctant
bridegroom.”

He touched his aching throat. “Cousin Obadiah likes to play
rough.”

The vicar glanced at One’s bloody arm but didn’t comment. “Very
well. The church is on the next street behind us. Follow me and make it quick.
I wish to be in my bed soon.”

If he wanted sleep, he shouldn’t be hanging about a public
house in the wee hours. “We are grateful, vicar,” Brecon whispered.

They followed the vicar into an alleyway and onto the street
beyond. The sandstone church appeared unkempt. Brecon supposed this vicar did
not inspire the local church ladies to go to any great effort. But, the man was
efficient. It was not five minutes later that they were in front of the altar.

“You’ll need a ring,” the vicar said brusquely.

He was right. That was an absolute requirement. Brecon
fiddled with the engine still in his apron pocket. One ignored him, busy tying
a handkerchief around his bleeding forearm.

“Just a moment, please.” He pulled off the apron and put it in
a pew, then bent over the engine until he had a brass cog removed from it. He
hated to disassemble such an elegant piece of machinery, but going through with
the marriage was the only way to save them from One’s games.

Leaving the mess on the apron in the pew, he polished the
oil from the cog and stepped forward with his brass ring. “Here we go.”

The vicar sniffed, but with only candlelight to guide him,
he couldn’t see what Brecon had been doing. “Very well.” He took the ring.

Brecon turned to Philadelphia, a bit light-headed at the
idea of a wedding, or perhaps he was still suffering from the effects of being
three-quarters strangled. She had a wide-eyed expression on her face as if she
couldn’t believe where she was, but when her gaze met his inquiring one, she
smiled. This expression of such purity of hope made him wish they were marrying
legally. She needed someone and so did he. He couldn’t harbor the hope that he
could return to his shipbuilding family and go on like these past eight months
had never happened. Also, he wasn’t sure he’d want to, anyway. He wasn’t the
same man. Nor was he the man who had saved Philadelphia at the cliff edge. He’d
been broken then, but these weeks working alongside her had mended his spirit
and given him strength.

The vicar cleared his throat, a phlegmatic sound borne of
too much tobacco and ale. “I will let you sign the parish register as proof to
the lady’s family that you married under the eyes of God, but you will have to
do all this again. I’d suggest a civil marriage.”

“Thank you,” Philadelphia said.

Brecon wasn’t sure he wanted them to have a record of their
true names in a book, pinpointing their whereabouts to anyone who cared to
look. But since the marriage wasn’t legal, it wouldn’t matter if they used
false names.

The vicar whipped through the marriage ceremony, but to
Brecon it seemed to unfold in slow motion, his responses making his palms sweat
and his legs feel like they were swaying in a stout wind. Philadelphia’s voice
sounded calm enough, though she was quieter than usual.

When they were done, Brecon glanced around and saw One
staring fixedly behind the altar.

“Kiss,” said the vicar in an exasperated tone.

Brecon turned to Philadelphia, realizing she was nearly as
tall as he was. She looked lovely in candlelight, though dirty and tired. Her
eyes shone blue and her skin looked golden. He closed his eyes and leaned in,
just touching her with his mouth. She pressed her lips to his, in a sweet
nothing of a kiss, then moved back.

The vicar sighed. “I do wish we’d had time to call the
banns. I’d almost believe you cared for each other, despite your wicked ways. We’ll
go into the hall. The register is in a room there.”

Before any of them could move, One pulled his heater from
his pocket and pointed it at the vicar. Philadelphia squeaked and grabbed for
Brecon. The brass ring caught candlelight and glowed against her finger on his
arm. But One was focused on the vicar.

“Open that safe,” he snarled, lifting his chin toward the
safe behind the altar. “I want the contents of your collection plate, fast.”

The vicar stared at him in horror, then checked the others.
Brecon shrugged slightly, as if to indicate he hadn’t expected this.
Philadelphia took a step back and he moved with her. Maybe they could leave
while One was stealing.

“You aren’t going anywhere,” One said, waving the heater.
“No games, Gravenor.”

“It–it isn’t much,” stuttered the vicar.

“Get it,” One ordered.

The vicar fled behind the altar and fumbled with the metal
safe on a table behind. Not the best hiding place, but then maybe the people of
this tiny town were honest. The vicar pulled out a small sack that clinked.

One stepped to him and grabbed the sack, rifling through it
with a finger. He snorted. “Where is the rest of it?”

“This is a poor community. We have nothing else. I take the
money to the bank once a month, whatever is left over from expenses.”

One grimaced. He stuffed his heater into his belt and
removed the vicar’s belt, then used it to tie the man’s hands behind his back.
“This was hardly worth the effort. Lie down on the floor here and count to one
thousand. If you move before that, I will shoot you.”

Philadelphia took a step backward again, but Brecon grabbed
her hand and stopped her. They were by no means out of range of that heater and
One was an experienced free trader. Or perhaps, he was more of a pirate, though
free traders generally took umbrage at the word.

Until Brecon could figure out how to disarm the man, they
were stuck with him.

One moved to the pew where the engine was, and folded the
whole mess into a packet that he tucked into his waistcoat.

“Come,” One ordered.

“Could we at least sign our names in the registry?”
Philadelphia asked.

One gave her a look of disgust. “This wasn’t real, lady.”

With a sigh, Brecon pulled Philadelphia along with him as
they left the church. He wondered if an airship would be outside, waiting to
return them to the Red Kites, but apparently One had a different idea. He
returned to the main road and continued east to Cardiff, offering no
explanation for his actions.

The three of them said nothing as they continued their
journey, but this time, Brecon kept Philadelphia’s hand in his, tapping the new
ring occasionally, hoping she’d understand. He’d lost his weapon, since the
engine was still on the church bench.

Eventually, they reached the River Taff. His new almost-wife
was stumbling with exhaustion by then, and her cough had begun to trouble her.
Brecon cupped his brass hand into a fairly clean puddle and made her drink
while One sneered.

“We should take the back roads to the shipyard,” Brecon
suggested. “If we stay here we’ll walk right past the Blockaders’
headquarters.”

“I have no problem with that. You are the Brass Hand.”

“But you are with us,” Philadelphia said, squeezing Brecon’s
hand.

He hadn’t minded their closeness a bit during this long,
disturbing night. But romance needed to be the last thing on his mind right
now. If only he could get word to his family. They would protect them both the
way that Terrwyn Fenna had been protected by the community when the Blockaders
had chased her. He needed to be a warrior now, a protector, not a lover. “What
is your plan, One?”

One shrugged. “I’m a gambling man. If the Blockaders spot
you, fantastic. If not, you’ll take me to your shipyard, nice and quiet, and
help me obtain an airship from your family. If they want this money, fine. If
they want a fight, that is fine too. Either way, we’re walking along the
waterfront. I have a taste for that river smell.”

Philadelphia pressed her lips together. Brecon figured the
odds were in their favor, since it was still quite dark. As long as he could
keep his brass hand hidden there shouldn’t be a problem. After all, it wasn’t
like they were gliding across the river in an illegal airship. Did One realize
the risk he was taking? Brecon had lost his hand just over the Channel, helping
Terrwyn Fenna take an airship out of the area.

They walked around the river, catching the smell of salt and
fish and rotting seaweed. As they came closer to the Blockader yard, Brecon
smelled fresh bread. The bakers started their day painfully early, though the
shop front was still closed. A few yards away, he smelled cooking eggs. This
pub was open, serving officers no doubt, about to start their day at the yard.
Brecon wished he still wore his apron, but attempted to tuck his brass hand
into a jacket pocket. The blasted thing didn’t fit, however, even when he made
a fist. Instead, he bent his elbow and tucked his hand into his jacket, like
Napoleon or a self-conscious amputee.

Just as they were past one pub, they reached another bakery,
this one open. Brecon’s stomach rumbled and Philadelphia’s matched his with an
inelegant sound that made her blush.

“It has been a long night,” he said.

One stopped in front of the open door. “I’m going in. Wait
here.”

Was he going to steal their money, too? Brecon judged the
chances of their escaping him. Surely the Blockaders would call for a constable
if he opened fire on them, but then they all might be dead or imprisoned. He
glanced at his almost-wife. She shook her head slightly. They would wait.