Gideon Smith and the Brass Dragon (43 page)

Walsingham placed the sheet of paper he had been reading on the blotter of his neat and ordered mahogany desk. He steepled his fingers and looked from one person to another, his gaze eventually settling on Gideon.

“Well,” he said.

Gideon waited.

“Welcome home, all of you. And you have succeeded in your mission. You have recovered Maria and the brass dragon. Well done.”

“And where is the dragon now?” asked Gideon. They had landed in Cornwall in the dead of night after circling high above the clouds while the
Skylady III
signaled to the Fleet Air Arm base at Falmouth with the codes that Walsingham had given her before they departed.

“Safe,” said Walsingham. “Our scientists are examining it as we speak.”

“Safe where?” asked Maria.

Walsingham raised an eyebrow. “Just safe. But fear not, Miss Maria. Your work with the dragon is far from over. By your own admission,
changes
occurred within you during your American sojourn. You have become more independent. Whether that is because of your continued association with the dragon or despite it, we need to find out. As Gideon's old friend Charles Darwin would have it, you are evolving, Maria. Tests must be carried out. We shall be requiring your presence…”

“Maria goes nowhere without me!” said Gideon.

Walsingham sighed. “Oh, Mr. Smith, do not be tiresome. You think we allowed you to embark upon this enterprise purely so that you could be reunited with your true love? The brass dragon is a weapon, Mr. Smith. Miss Maria is, whether you like it or not, inextricably a part of that. Tests must be carried out. Miss Maria must be a part of that. No harm will come to her, you can be assured of that.”

“We can be assured of nothing,” said Gideon. “Perhaps I am tiresome because what you do not overtly lie about, you omit. For example, why didn't you tell us about Jeb Hart? Why let us believe we were the only ones responsible for the rescue?”

Walsingham raised an eyebrow at Gideon's tone but said nothing, simply spreading his hands. “It is always wise to have a contingency plan, should things go wrong.”

“Nothing went wrong,” said Gideon.

Walsingham's already thin lips tightened. “I wouldn't be quite so … positive, Mr. Smith.” He picked up the sheet of typed paper again. “Edward Lyle, the Governor of New York, dead. Louis Cockayne, whom I have employed in the past, dead. San Antonio destroyed in a flagrant act of aggression. Orders to engage with the enemy in Nyu Edo blatantly disregarded.” He looked up at them. “Aiding and abetting the creation of a breakaway community whose interests are in direct competition with those of British America.”

Gideon began to count off on his fingers. “Louis Cockayne died a hero, protecting Maria and me and enabling us to secure the dragon. We did, in fact, engage with the Japanese, but the reason for attacking them was proved to be utterly fraudulent. San Antonio, or Steamtown, was a viper pit of villainy where men and women were enslaved in the basest manner imaginable. The town of Freedom would have been established whether we were there or not. And Edward Lyle…”

“Edward Lyle died when he was hit by a stray bullet fired by the mechanical man created by the Japanese,” finished Walsingham, laying down the paper. “Yes, I have read Mr. Hart's report.”

Gideon breathed a silent thank you to Jeb Hart. Walsingham sat back in his leather chair. “Still, as I said, you have succeeded in your mission. You have returned our assets to British soil.”

“Maria is not an asset,” said Gideon, taking her hand in his. “She is my—” He looked at her, then back at Walsingham, defiantly. “She is my sweetheart.”

“How terribly Bohemian,” said Walsingham. He looked at Gideon for a long moment. “You, too, have …
changed,
Mr. Smith. Could it be that Maria is not the only one
evolving
? Not the only one experiencing increasing
independence
?”

“Perhaps I'm becoming my own man at last, Mr. Walsingham.”

Walsingham frowned. “But I thought you were
our
man, Mr. Smith. By royal appointment.”

Gideon leaned forward. “Mr. Walsingham, God knows just how many fingers you have in how many pies, but please let me clear one thing up: You pay our wages, but you don't own us.”

He heard Bent snort in surprise beside him but didn't look over. He continued, “We have done as we were instructed, Mr. Walsingham. Now we are going to take a rest, have some time to recuperate. I trust that sits well with you.”

Walsingham seemed faintly amused. He inclined his head. “Of course. If you do decide to leave the country for any reason at all, Mr. Smith, you will keep me informed, won't you?”

“Naturally,” said Gideon, standing. Bent and Maria rose beside him.

“The Empire will call upon you when it needs you,” said Walsingham. “Good day, Mr. Smith, and once again … well done. All of you.”

*   *   *

Across London, in the Union Hall of the Esteemed Brethren of International Airshipmen, located in an ornate stone building on the edge of Highgate Aerodrome, court was in session. Or had been for some hours; Rowena waited impatiently in the wood-paneled corridor outside a closed wooden door, wondering if Gideon's debriefing had been more convivial than hers.

As soon as she had returned to London, a message was sent to the offices of Fanshawe Aeronautical Endeavors. Miss Fanshawe had been commissioned to take one cargo to San Antonio and bring back another; the brief had not been fulfilled. There might be a case of maladministration to answer.

The panel of Brethren officials had heard her evidence—or as much as she'd dared give them, given the nature of the last few days—and had retired to consider their verdict. She had been waiting in the corridor for an hour, aching to get out into the sun, desperate to fly, even if it was just to take the
Skylady III
on a test flight to make sure the repairs to the balloon she had effected before her return were holding.

The door opened, and the clerk, a young man with a serious face and greased-down hair, nodded at her to enter.

She took her position before the panel of three men, all former airmen. Her peers. Her people. Her Brethren.

The chairman peered over his half-moon spectacles at her. “Miss Fanshawe. The panel has come to a decision.”

She smiled at them and nodded. It was all a formality. Even the Belle of the Airways had to show she was accountable.

The chairman said, “We have heard your evidence about the job that was assigned to you at North Beach in New York. We consider that there were severe lapses in Brethren rules in even allowing this cargo to be taken. Accepting cargos for transport without allowing the captain of any vessel full disclosure is simply not acceptable according to the Brethren code. We accept that you had a desire to travel to San Antonio for your own reasons related to your, ah, extracurricular work on behalf of the British Crown. You ultimately proved pivotal in bringing to the fore a hidden and illegal trade in human beings. For that you are to be commended.”

Rowena nodded. “Thank you. I—”

The chairman held up his hand. “
However
 … although the whole enterprise was flawed from start to finish, you agreed as a member of the Esteemed Brethren of International Airshipmen to take on a cargo with the express understanding that you did not tamper with the documentation relating to said cargo. By your own admission you opened the cargo manifest when you were strictly forbidden from doing so.”

“But—”

The chairman glared at her. “Miss Fanshawe. The word of the Brethren is their bond. Any lapse in honesty or integrity reflects on the whole organization. Whatever the rights and wrongs of the situation, you gave your word and you broke it.”

“Then I am to be punished,” said Rowena numbly.

The chairman nodded. “It is the decision of this panel that your membership in the Brethren shall be held in abeyance for the period of one year from today's date. During that time you may carry on your business but not under the auspices of the Brethren, and you must inform any and all clients before you take business that you are not Brethren at the present time.”

Rowena stared at him. “This is my livelihood…”

He smiled. “Come, Miss Fanshawe. You are the Belle of the Airways. You were given the Conspicuous Gallantry Medal by Queen Victoria herself. Surely you will find enough lucrative adventures to fill your time until your punishment is at an end.”

The chairman and the panel nodded and rose, leaving her alone in the room. “And this is the thanks I get,” she said. Did they think adventuring actually
paid
? Conspicuous Gallantry Medal, indeed. She wondered, as she sighed and left the Union Hall, how much they'd give her for it at the pawnbroker.

*   *   *

Outside on Whitehall in the sunshine, Bent laughed long and hard and clapped Gideon on the shoulder. “‘You pay our wages, but you don't own us?' Now where have I heard that one before?”

“Here's another one you might know. ‘We're going to have sleep, and lots of it, with ale and gin at regular intervals.'”

Bent cackled as Gideon took Maria's hand in his. She squeezed his, and he squeezed back then impulsively leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

“Shall we take a steam-cab back to Grosvenor Square?” asked Bent.

“Oh, can we walk?” asked Maria, pirouetting and laughing, the wind from the river blowing her hair behind her. “It's such a lovely day, and the weather will turn soon. I haven't seen London look so beautiful for a long time.”

“It's nothing compared to you, dearest Maria,” said Gideon.

Bent mimed a vomiting motion with his stubby fingers in his mouth. “You might steal all my best lines, Smith, but I can see I'm going to have to teach you how to speak to a lady properly. And you can learn to effing cuss right, as well. Now come on, it might be a lovely day, but there's ale in them barrels that's not going to drink itself. I said we'd meet Rowena in the Audley Hotel after her Brethren meeting. And it's your round, I believe, Gideon…?”

*   *   *

From his window, Walsingham watched the three of them walk arm in arm along the bank of the Thames. They had earned their break. He looked back at the neat pile of buff folders on his desk. There was plenty of time, and enough to keep them busy. For now, at least. After that … what was it Gideon Smith had said? Ah, yes. He had many fingers, and many, many pies.

T
HREE
M
ONTHS
L
ATER

It was turning colder, much colder than it had ever been on the island, and she could feel herself slowing down, her blood running more sluggishly. But she was still fast enough and big enough that the black-furred beast that had bared its teeth and growled at her, standing upright on its back legs and batting its paws at her when she'd interrupted its attempt to scoop fish out of the bubbling stream, had offered little real resistance. The hunting was good in this place, and the animal would make a satisfying meal.

The wounds on her belly from the spitting sticks of the hairless creatures had healed, leaving her yellow underside crisscrossed with scars. She had resolved to keep away from such animals in the future, and none had ventured deep into the forest of soaring trees that stretched right up the coast of this vast new land she now called home.

Taking the beast in her mighty jaws, she began to thunder back through the forest. She shouldn't be here, she knew, perhaps shouldn't be anywhere in this world. But she was here, and she was alive, and she had to survive.

She felt a pang in her chest for her mate, whom she knew she would never see again. She could not conceive of going back into the vast ocean, could not think that she would ever see her island, or her mate, again. But life would go on.

Before she had left, he had filled her with eggs, barely a couple of months since her last clutch. She had known, as she fled into the forest of tall trees that shielded her from the hot sun, that something was happening inside her. It was only a week or two later that she had found herself clearing a space on the forest floor and lying down to ease out the eggs, seven in all.

Just like on the island, there was nothing bigger than her here, nothing to threaten her babies. Two had not hatched, and one had not survived longer than a day. But that left her four strong babies, two like her and two like her mate. They were tiny, still, no bigger than half of one of the hairless beasts that had attacked her, but they were growing stronger by the day. They chirped and growled as she nosed into the clearing and dropped the dead animal in the middle of the nest, the four of them falling on it hungrily, nipping at each other to get around its still-warm flesh, burying their teeth into its furry hide.

She watched, proudly, as they ate. Soon they would be big and strong, and she would teach them to hunt. Then they would leave to strike out on their own in the forest. They would pair up, if they survived, and have babies of their own, and she would be the head of a grand dynasty that would rule the forest.

And woe betide any of the hairless beasts who ventured into her domain.

As her babies ate, she thought, as she often did, of the egg that had been stolen from her, and she paused to wonder if by some miracle it had survived and hatched, and if it was out there somewhere, in this world that was so much bigger than she had ever imagined.

She threw back her head and roared, and the vast trees shook, and the tiny, feathered creatures flew, squawking, from the branches, and the furred beasts of the forest quaked and hid in their burrows. The land was huge, unending. She had never felt so free in all her life.

*   *   *

Snow blew against the window, the sky beyond pitch-black save for the pale corona of the nearby gas lamp on the street outside. Perhaps it was going to be a white Christmas. Emily Dawson paused to rub a stubborn smudge from the glass and glanced out at the rapidly falling flakes. Just the main laboratory to clean, then she could be away for the weekend. She moved away from the window and stood before the tall double doors, smoothing down her apron. She always left the laboratory for last. She hated it in there, hated the way the beast regarded her with its yellow eyes. She was sure an intelligence lurked behind those eyes that seemed to be sizing her up, appraising her. She couldn't understand why Professor Rubicon gave the thing houseroom.