Gideon Smith and the Brass Dragon (21 page)

“Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones,” said Pinch, his voice hissing through his metal jaw, saliva dribbling from his teeth in stringy webs. “You're a long way from home, sirs. What brings you to Steamtown?”

“Nice place you got here, Pinch,” said Bent, looking around. He brandished his ticket. “What's this all about, though?”

Pinch's jaw wobbled alarmingly, pulsing blood from the bolts at his neck. Gideon realized he was smiling, or trying to. He said, “Choo-Choo's is a popular spot, gentlemen. Sometimes it gets oversubscribed. Impatient, horny men don't make for peaceful times. To make things fair, we give out chits. The number you get equals the girl you get. Saves arguments.” He twisted his head to look at the tickets. “Twenty-three. That's Consuela. Fiery little Spanish thing. You'll enjoy her. And Mr. Smith has … number eight. Ah, I think that's a fresh little filly we got, still needs a bit of breaking in. You'll have to be firm with her, Mr. Smith. She needs showing who's boss. Still going on about her rights, how we got no call holding her here.” He sat back, lifting up his steam-powered arm to reach for his glass of whisky. “She'll learn. They always do, eventually.”

“Well, when in Rome…,” said Bent. “Though, any chance of a glass of that firewater you're sipping there, Pinch?”

Gideon watched with horrid fascination as Pinch, with a grinding of gears and a whisper of boiling steam, raised his arm. A moment later, a woman appeared at the table bearing a tray with two glasses and a bottle of whisky. She wore a corset in which her breasts barely hid themselves, and a scandalous display of pale flesh between her stocking tops and her bloomers. No skirt of any description. Bent made a happy sound and gave the girl's rump a light slap. Gideon looked at him, aghast. Was this all an act to help ingratiate them with Pinch, or had the journalist so quickly and easily regressed to the base level of the Steamtowners once away from the civilizing influence of the Empire?

Pinch poured Gideon and Bent a glass each of whisky with what Gideon had started to think of as his “good” arm. There was a piano in the far, dark corner that Gideon hadn't noticed before. A man staggered to it, sat down, and began to plonk tunelessly at the keys. Pinch nudged one of his boys and said, “Have him stop or have him shot.” Then he turned to Gideon and fixed him with his dark eyes. “Does my appearance disturb you, Mr. Smith?”

Gideon considered for a moment. “Yes.”

Pinch laughed. “You're honest. Direct. I like that. Nine men out of ten, fuck, ninety-nine out of a hundred asked that question, they'd say ‘No, Mr. Pinch, whatever do you mean? You look as purty as a bitch, Mr. Pinch.' I know what I look like, Mr. Smith. I want to look this way.” With effort, Pinch stood and walked to the frosted glass window. “Some folks, they say it ain't natural.” He turned to Gideon. “And I say, what the fuck's natural, then? What's natural about this world? Is it natural to wear fancy suits cut from dyed cloth? Is it natural to roast your meat before you eat it? Is it natural for a woman to cover her body just so's a man can rip the clothes from her? Is it natural to fly through the fucking air on balloons, Mr. Smith?”

Gideon could feel Bent's eyes on him, willing him to say the right thing. He said, “No, those things aren't natural, Mr. Pinch. But they're what elevates us from the animals. They're what make us human.”

Gideon jumped as Pinch strode over with a clank and a cloud of steam emanating from his leg, pushing his face close to Gideon's. “Yes, Mr. Smith! Oh, yes, Mr. Smith!”

Pinch stood up and glared at his cronies. “Would any of you have the fucking brains to say that? Or would you just stick my cock in your mouths and nod? Jesus, maybe I should get rid of you all and surround myself with people like Mr. Smith here.” He sat down again heavily, rubbing the sores at the edges of his jaw. “Yes, Mr. Smith. Those things are what make us human. But what if I want to be better than human? Is that so hard to understand? We fly, Mr. Smith. It's been the dream of man since time immemorial, and now we fly. It is only the flesh that binds us to the natural world, and inch by inch, sinew by sinew, drop of blood by drop of blood, I am replacing the flesh, Mr. Smith. I am becoming as a fucking god.”

There was silence in the bar. Pinch's men shifted uncomfortably and directed hooded glares at the Englishmen. Gideon stared at Pinch. He wasn't just strange, he was insane. The sort of insane that chilled the blood. Pinch leaned forward. “Which raises the question, Mr. Smith, me being as a fucking god and all … just why are you treating me like I'm some kind of shit-kicking asshole?”

Bent laughed nervously. “Bloody fine hooch you brew up down here, Pinch. Bloody fine. Anyway, what say we have a look around town? See, me and Mr. Smith, we might be in the market for … investing in Steamtown. Yes, investing, isn't that right, Smith?” Bent kicked him under the table. “I said, investing, we should have a look around—”

“Shut the fuck up,” snarled Pinch.

“Yes,” said Gideon quietly. There was no point in lying now, he could see that. Pinch was clearly insane, but he held all the cards. “Best be quiet.”

Pinch snapped the fingers on his good hand impatiently and Inkerman, after some fumbling, placed what looked like a rolled-up newspaper or pamphlet in his hand. Gideon's heart sank as he unfurled it on the table. It was a copy of
World Marvels & Wonders
.

“The Battle of London,” said Pinch. “I must say, it's a good likeness of you, Mr. Gideon Smith.” He squinted at the penny blood, then at Bent. “Of you, sir, maybe not so much.”

“Ah,” said Bent. “Looks like the game's up, then.” He paused for a moment then said, “Run.”

Gideon stood as Bent made a dash for the door, but a volley of clicks brought the journalist to a halt. Ten guns were trained on them. Pinch slammed the penny dreadful on the table. “Did you think we were savages down here, Mr. Smith? Did you think that we didn't thrill to the adventures of the Hero of the Empire? You might be out of the Empire, Smith, but you haven't fallen off the edge of the world.” He shook his head. “Jesus H. Christ, the sheer audacity of you English never fails to amaze me. That's why my daddy seceded from your control, why he decided to take his chances alone in this hostile territory rather than get taxed into his grave by some shriveled old bitch of a queen thousands of miles away.”

“Mr. Pinch,” said Gideon levelly, “I'll thank you not to speak that way about Queen Victoria.”

“Are you going to kill us?” asked Bent.

“Probably,” said Pinch. “But not yet, and maybe not at all if you give me what I want.”

“Which is?” asked Gideon.

Pinch rolled up the copy of
World Marvels & Wonders
and tapped his metal jaw with it. “I found this story very energizing. All this thrilling talk of brass dragons. Funny, then, you should show up when you do. Especially after a certain Mr. Louis Cockayne of my acquaintance tried to sell me a brass dragon not more'n two weeks back.”

Gideon kept his face neutral. Cockayne had been written out of the official version of the events that had come to be known as the Battle of London; there was no reason for Pinch to suspect they knew each other at all. He said, “Cockayne stole the dragon from the Crown. We've been sent to get it back.”

Pinch nodded. “Then you might do better—and live longer—than Cockayne. You know how the thing flies?”

Gideon shrugged noncommittally.

“Okay, what do you know about this Maria chickadee who flies the dragon?”

Gideon's eyes narrowed. “What do
you
know of Maria?”

“Only that I want her, Smith. I want her to fly the dragon, and I want her to be my queen.”

Bent gaped at him. “Your queen?”

Pinch nodded. “The King and Queen of Steamtown. You could say we were made for each other.” He began to laugh unpleasantly. He waved at Inkerman. “These fuckers know more than they're telling. Stick 'em in the pen until they're ready to talk. And find that sneaky bastard Hart.”

The punks closed in on Gideon and Bent. Inkerman said, “Frisk 'em for weapons, boys.”

They took Gideon's Bulldog, and the Colt he had secreted inside his jacket, as well as the hunting knife strapped to his leg. Bent handed over his notebook. “That's all I got,” he said. “Pen is mightier than the sword, and all that.”

“Frisk him anyway,” said Inkerman.

Bent shrugged and held up his arms. “Careful down the trousers, though; there's a couple of open sores on my old feller.” He cupped his hand conspiratorially around his mouth. “Touch of the clap. It's very catching, apparently.”

The crony held up his own hands and backed off, glancing at Inkerman, who sighed. “Oh, he don't look like he knows one end of a gun from the other anyway. Let's get 'em to the pen.”

Gideon held Pinch's gaze as they began to hustle him toward the door. “You're making a big mistake. We're agents of the Crown.”

Pinch grimaced, or smiled. Gideon wasn't sure which. “Like I said, you're a long way from home, Mr. Smith. There's only one law in Steamtown, and you're looking at it. We'll have another chat tomorrow morning.”

*   *   *

Outside, Jeb Hart silently watched the shapes that moved behind the frosted glass. He couldn't see for sure, but it seemed pretty obvious that Smith and Bent had been found out already. He stole back the way he'd come, back to the stables. He wasn't sure if this was a disaster, or exactly what was expected to happen. He didn't really care. All that he knew was that he was now supposed to get his ass the hell out of Steamtown at the earliest opportunity. He didn't need telling twice.

*   *   *

“That went well,” said Bent as Inkerman and his thugs pushed him and Gideon into a dark cell in the squat pen on the edge of the main street. Inkerman locked the iron bars that ran the length of the pen and grinned at them.

“I'm going for something to eat. There are a couple of boys outside, so think on that. You want to piss, there's a bucket in the corner. You want to eat, you wait until I get back, and I'll bring you some vittles. You want to talk, you start hollering. We'll get you to Mr. Pinch.”

“What if we just want to agree that this has been a terrible mistake and go home?” suggested Bent hopefully.

Inkerman grinned again. “I'll be back in an hour or so. You boys play nice until then.”

When he'd left, Gideon immediately began to shake the bars, but they didn't so much as budge. Bent said, “I wonder what happened to Hart.”

“If he has any sense he got out of Steamtown as soon as we were rumbled,” said Gideon.

Bent watched him attacking the bars for a moment then asked, “What's the plan?”

“I don't have one,” said Gideon. “Do you?”

They both jumped at the voice that came from the shadows they'd thought empty behind them. “Didn't I tell you to always be prepared, Smith? And if you can't be prepared, be lucky?”

Gideon turned slowly, his eyes wide, his jaw dropping. And there he was, the brim of his hat pulled low over his eyes in the darkness at the back of the pen.

Louis Cockayne.

The Yankee gave a lopsided grin. “And here we are, cell mates. I guess it's your lucky day after all, Smith.”

Gideon pulled back his fist, let fly, and knocked Louis Cockayne flat on his backside.

 

16

J
AILBREAK

“Hey, you don't hit like a lady anymore,” said Cockayne, rubbing his jaw. “You been taking lessons?”

“Get up,” said Gideon through gritted teeth. “Get up so I can knock you down again.”

Bent put a hand on his arm. “Gideon … either you're suddenly punching like a pile driver, or someone got to Cockayne before us. Look at his face.”

The strength ebbed out of Gideon as he realized Bent was right. Somebody had done a real number on Cockayne, and it wasn't him. He still kept his guard up, though—both his fists and his resolve not to let Cockayne get away with what he had done. He said, “Get up. I won't hit you again.”

“My lucky day,” said Cockayne, struggling to his feet.

Bent said, “What happened to you? Thaddeus Pinch?”

Cockayne nodded, rubbing the patch of his chin where a fresh bruise courtesy of Gideon was blossoming amid the cuts and swelling. “How'd you guess?”

“Just lucky, I suppose,” said Gideon. “Unlike you. Perhaps the next time you steal something that isn't yours you might be a little more choosy who you try to sell it to.”

Cockayne raised an eyebrow at Bent. “He been taking lessons in smart-mouthing as well as hitting?”

“He's come a long way since he got his clock cleaned by John Reed on top of that dragon,” conceded Bent. “He's doing better than anyone expected, in truth.”

Gideon coughed loudly. This was getting away from him. He said, “I am actually here, you know. And I'm less concerned with your … your assessment of my progress, Mr. Bent, than I am with where exactly Apep and Maria are.”

“That's easy,” said Cockayne, sitting down on one of four hinged bunks that folded up flat against the wall. “Little way north of here there's an old mission called the Alamo. That's where Pinch is keeping the dragon, under tarpaulins and very heavy armed guard.”

“So you did sell it to him,” said Gideon, raising his arm almost involuntarily, ready to deliver another punch.

Cockayne held up his hands. “Well, that's a pretty loose definition of what happened. I came here to sell Apep to Pinch, that's true. And he does actually have possession of it. But no actual money changed hands.” Cockayne pinched his nose gingerly, grimacing at the pain. “Think it's broken. In other words, you could say I was ripped off.”

“No honor among thieves,” pointed out Bent.