Hearts of Smoke and Steam (31 page)

Feeling satisfied that the work was proceeding properly, he turned back to Anubis. “Now, what were we talking about?”

“The two reasons you don't want to kill me.”

“And those were?”

“First,” Anubis said after a pause, “even if you don't like my methods, I get the job done.”

Jack chuckled at that. Anubis had started out as an excellent partner, and both of them had been equals in the ranks of the Children, but as Eschaton's plans had progressed, Jack had, more than once, found himself cleaning up after Anubis's tendency to leave any job that required a bit of violence half-finished and call it done. “Your ‘methods' were the reason we had to abandon this hideout in the first place.” He stuck out his finger and poked against the golden ankh in the middle of Anubis's leather chestplate. “And
that's
why you ended up having to save me from being scalped by a man with a wooden hat!”

“I didn't let the Sleuth go.”

“So you keep saying, but somehow I find it less believable every time you do. And whether you let the man go or he escaped, you were supposed stop him by any means necessary. Instead, you stopped me!”

“I'm not a murderer.”

“No, I understand.” Jack held up the silver snake's head. “You're just an enabler to murder.”

“I tried to save him.”

Jack smiled. “Really? That's a pathetic excuse. But it really didn't happen all by itself, did it?”

Anubis tilted his head toward the ground. “No.”

Jack held open his jacket. “You know, if I ever was put on the stand, I could tell the jury it was my beautiful little knives that did all the killing, but somehow I don't think that would keep my neck out of the noose.”

Jack could hear the sound of Anubis breathing heavily under his mask. “I watched him burn. He died in agony.”

At least he was getting to the jackal. He wished he could see the man's eyes and know just how deeply he'd wounded him. It was Jack's experience that men died more easily than expected. Every living creature tried desperately to cling to life, but when the end finally came, it always came in an instant.

When Jack had been younger, he had found it difficult to watch people die, but with age he began to realize that no matter what the form a man's death took, they all went to the same place. Sooner or later, he reasoned, Anubis would recognize that as well, even if it was Jack's hand that showed him. “But you said there were two reasons. What was the second one?”

“Eschaton
doesn't trust you, either.”

Jack frowned. “Who trusts anyone? You think I trust you?”

“No. But it might make us allies.”

Jack laughed. He was about to call the man a fool, but the words didn't leave his mouth. It wasn't, he had to admit, completely wrong. “What are you getting at, Anubis?”

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

“Lord Eschaton isn't
my
enemy.”

“He isn't your friend, either.”

Jack thought about that for a second. “Neither are you…” But the gray man was still the closest thing he had to any kind of friend at all. Before Eschaton had appeared, Jack's life hadn't really amounted to all that much.

Jack had been born in London, and his parents had been royalty of some sort, but not royal enough that it mattered when the money ran out. Looking for a second chance, they had decided to try their luck in the United States. It had turned out to be the worst kind of luck, with both his mother and his father killed by a runaway horse-cart.

The wagon had careened onto the sidewalk, and passed less than an inch above the young boy's head as it smashed into the midday crowd, tearing his mother's hand from his with the blow that killed her.

After that, Jack's modest inheritance had been slowly embezzled away by a string of so-called aunts and uncles who had handed him off from one relative to the next, showing him the barest minimum of love and affection until the money had run out.

By the time he turned fourteen, there were no more relatives and no more money, and he had become a ward of the state. Jack had quickly rebelled against the cold care of the orphanage, and when he decided to run away, no one bothered to come after him.

Living on the street forced him to rely on his meager skills to get by. But for all his naïveté, when it came to survival, there was one skill that had served him well: ever since he had been a boy, Jack was a dead shot. As a child, he had often knocked sparrows out of trees with nothing more than a rock, and his father, while he was alive, had encouraged his son's skills in marksmanship, giving him access to a variety of weapons, including bows and slingshots.

Throwing rocks was good enough to keep him alive, for a while at least. But as he grew bigger, so did his enemies, and simply being able to distract or wound his targets was no longer enough. The only way to be safe was to make sure that if he put someone down, they would never get up again. Soon after that, he discovered that a blade was better than a stone.

But even after he had mastered a throwing knife, Jack had learned that there were limits to what a blade could do to get you out of trouble. For every man you killed, it turned out, there was another who would come looking to avenge his death.

Jack was on the run when the gray man had caught him. He had been hired to take revenge on one of Lord Eschaton's costumed clients. The murder itself hadn't been of interest, but when he saw what Jack could do with a knife, he had pulled him out of danger and into the Children. He'd called the boy his “wild dog,” and he told him that if he could learn just a bit of cunning to go with his skills, Jack could become a wolf. If, Eschaton had once explained, he could let go of his anger and simply hate everyone with an equal passion, Jack might become a leader of men. The gray man had offered him a chance to become more than just a thug on the run, and Jack had taken it.

Eschaton had cleaned him up and given him the jacket filled with perfectly balanced knives, along with his new name.

And for a while, it had been enough.

But soon he was being passed by for advancement by men like Rapid Fire, Bomb Lance, and Doc Dynamite. And while those men had worked by Lord Eschaton's side, Jack was still out on the streets. Not that he couldn't understand
why
he was there—but he wanted more.

So maybe Anubis could help him. The man
was
a wild card—too honest to be trustworthy—but it wouldn't hurt to humor him. “I don't need any friends,” he told the jackal.

“Everyone needs a friend, sooner or later.”

“I don't see you having any.” Sooner or later, the jackal would make a mistake and give Jack a good reason to kill him. Or maybe he really did have something to offer. Either way, there was no reason to antagonize him. And the two of them were alike in some ways. “And you need to stop getting in my way.”

“And you need to stop sticking a knife into everyone who makes you angry.”

Jack chuckled at that. Now Anubis was sounding like Eschaton. “We'll see. Meanwhile, we have other work to do.”

“New orders?”

“You're just in time.”

Anubis didn't move or respond. He just continued to breathe at him through his leather mask. The sound of it was incredibly annoying, but he declined to comment on it in the name of their newfound alliance. “You need to lead Donny and Cutter over to a theater in Union Square tomorrow.”

“Not you?”

“Not me.” He smiled. “I've got a gang to rebuild, no thanks to you.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Eschaton has tracked down the Stanton girl, after Bomb Lance and le Voyageur failed.”

“And he wants us to get her.”

“Exactly. And she has the mechanical man's heart, as well.” He looked the jackal up and down. “Think you'll be up for it?”

Anubis nodded slightly. “I won't kill her.”

“Always the bleeding heart.” He nodded in the direction of Cutter. “The dwarf only knifes women who try to hurt him first.”

“Is that a joke?”

Jack shook his head. “It's a fact. So,” he said, accenting the last word hard enough to make it sound like a threat, “can I trust you to get this done?”

Anubis nodded. “I'll be here tomorrow.”

“Before dark, if you'd be so kind. And,” he said, holding up the snake's head, “no excuses.”

“As you say.” Anubis turned and began to walk away. Jack saw that there was something wrong with his suit, a gap where a hole had been burned through the leather. What it revealed made him smile.

V
incent had clearly put in a great deal of effort to make sure that from every corner of the theater, and on either side of the stage, the faces of the pneumatic man stared down at the crowd from the walls. Sarah tried to ignore how similar the likenesses were to Tom's long-shattered porcelain features.

From her seat near the front of the auditorium, Sarah had to admit that the show was visually impressive, even if the story was nonsense, and served mostly to introduce a menagerie of mechanical creatures.

The show focused on a safari through the “lost clockwork world of darkest Africa,” led by the heroic Vincent Smith. The young adventurer was hot on the trail of the legendary pneumatic man, a giant living machine that was also the ruler of all the mechanical creatures.

Vincent himself acted as narrator to the supposedly “true adventures” of his younger self. Dressed in an immaculate costume of white breeches and a red jacket with long tails, he stood at a podium at the edge of the stage, explaining both the origins and the dangers of the different creatures he faced during his journey, while occasionally manipulating the controls that brought them to life.

Within the play there was an actor who portrayed the younger version of Vincent. He was dashing and debonair, and (Sarah guessed) far more handsome than the actual man had been at that age. He was also clearly a trained acrobat who had spent the last half hour dodging and weaving the horns, hooves, claws, and talons of the different mechanical monsters that he faced on his journey.

Currently he was madly running away from a rampaging metal hippopotamus that had been terrorizing a tribe of mechanical Pygmies known as the “iron men.” Portrayed by little actors in metal costumes, they were throwing spears at the creature, and so many had pierced its tin hide that it had begun to take on the appearance of a giant angry porcupine.

Sarah looked over to see how Emilio and Viola were enjoying the show. The Italian girl was obviously enraptured, hollering and clapping, shouting to urge the Pygmies on.

Emilio seemed less animated but equally engrossed by the show. He was holding his sharp face firmly in his hands, and was obviously entranced by seeing his machines on the stage. Clearly his time back at the theater had rekindled his interest.

Sarah stared at him, watching the show reflected in his eyes. For a moment, it almost seemed as if she could see the wheels actually turning inside of his head.

Sarah kept looking, wondering if he would even notice her attention. And at the moment she was about to give up on him, his eyes flicked in her direction. Having seen her, he turned toward her and smiled.

Sarah smiled back, but her expression felt disconnected and false. It was as if someone else had taken over her face and was smiling for her. It was, in a word, mechanical.

Accepting her wan grin, Emilio nodded and turned back to watch the show. Sarah sighed. What did it mean that he couldn't see into her heart?

Or maybe he just didn't
want
to see any deeper…The Armandos were as happy as they'd been since she met them, and she supposed that there was no reason they shouldn't be enjoying themselves. But try as she might, Sarah couldn't let herself relax.

Instead, she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. It wasn't entirely nerves: it had been a while since she had been in a bodice, but she had wanted to look a little more dressed-up for the occasion.

She had hoped it would help her feel a bit more comfortable—embraced by a taste of the life that she had left behind. There was even a decently fashionable hat on her head that Viola had magically produced from her wardrobe, although with the mood of the Italian girl subject to sudden shifts, Sarah hadn't dared to ask how she managed to come by it.

Viola had also dressed up, although her dress was far more revealing than any proper lady would wear. When she had asked Sarah's opinion, Sarah had simply replied that it was “flattering,” although she had bitten back the word
scandalous
in order to say it.

Viola had told Sarah that she was, under no circumstances, allowed to bring her costume along with her, although there were a few things in her bag, if the need arose for her to defend herself.

Turning her attention back to the stage, she watched as the mechanical hippo swayed woozily, dripping copious amounts of black gore. The Pygmies had surrounded it and were poking at the dying creature repeatedly with their spears. She found herself feeling sorry for it, and then reminded herself that it wasn't alive, or even a living machine like Tom. It was simply a puppet—expertly manipulated, but lifeless.

But emotion won out, and Sarah found herself relieved when a moment later it collapsed with a groan, jetting out a large spout of pink steam from its back that was a clear signal that the beast had been vanquished. At least she would no longer have to watch it suffer.

The curtains swung closed, and the limelight swung back onto Vincent. “Having worked together to slay the beast, we had forged a bond of trust. The iron Pygmies, so keen to butcher me only a few hours before, were now eager to point me in the direction of the pneumatic man. I had proven that I might be able to free them from his tyrannical rule.

“But they would be unable to accompany me on my journey. The tiny metal men were too small and heavy to try to climb the sheer cliff face that separated me from my goal.”

Sarah wondered to herself how the pygmies would know where to tell Vincent to go if they couldn't get there themselves, then she chided herself for being so particular.

She knew that if she could let herself relax and enjoy the show, time would go more quickly. It reminded her of Christmas mornings before the adults were awake, except with an underlying sense of dread.

It wasn't the show itself, of course. Since the moment that she had placed Tom's heart into Vincent's hands, she had discovered an uncomfortable tightness in her chest that refused to go away.

And it was obvious that Emilio wasn't completely unaware of her nervousness. His solution was to tell her to stop worrying, which only served to make her even more concerned.

She looked up at the stage and stared at Vincent Smith. No matter what he was now, the man
had
been a villain. No matter how hard she tried to believe his claims of repentance, it was impossible to ignore the fact that the last hope for Tom was now entirely in the hands of a man who had once fought against the Paragons—and had tried to bring the entire Hall down on top of her father!

Trying to alleviate her fears, they had arrived to the show early, but that had only made things worse. Vincent had greeted Viola with a lusty hug (which she returned). Then he handed them three tickets and told them that they should enjoy the show.

When Sarah demanded that Emilio tell her about his progress on the heart, he smiled and told her that after the performance was over, they would retire to the workshop. “Don't worry Sarah! Is good!”

She had considered demanding that he show it to her immediately. But like it or not, things were clearly out of her hands, and Emilio trusted Vincent totally.

Sarah caught herself clutching nervously at her blouse, her fingers tracing the outline of the key around her neck. Not wanting to appear like a nervous child, she folded her hands together into her lap and frowned.

Ever since she had picked up Tom's broken heart from the remains of his body, she had allowed herself to hope that if she restored that single part to working order, they would be able to rebuild the rest of him. And if anyone had bothered to ask her, she would have told them that she believed it with every fiber of her body—although she would not have been able to articulate why she thought it was true.

Now that she was on the verge of that being a reality, doubt had begun to creep into Sarah's own heart. Truth be told, she understood almost nothing about what it was that had animated the mechanical man beyond the marvel of the Alpha Element. Even Darby had often remarked that he was never fully able to comprehend what had brought Tom to life, nor had he ever been able to replicate it.

“And so I began to climb the mountains of mechanical mystery,” Vincent said from the side of the stage. The curtains parted to reveal a craggy cliff face constructed from steel and brass. The handsome actor was already climbing up it, hand over hand.

With each step he took, the wall slid underneath him, allowing him to stay in place while he continued to ascend upwards. It was an impressive effect, and Sarah could tell it was something Emilio hadn't seen before. His lips were pursed in a grim line that Sarah had come to realize meant he was in a deep state of concentration, trying to unravel a mechanical secret.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sarah noticed movement along the far aisles. When she turned to take a better look, she saw two men. Both wore scruffy jackets of brown worsted wool, with cloth caps pulled down tightly over their heads. One was tall and thin, the other no taller than a child, although he clearly had a man's bearing. They were both hunched over as if they had something to hide, trying so hard not to be noticed that for a moment Sarah thought they were actors preparing to surprise the audience.

When they disappeared through a curtain at the left side of the stage, an uneasy feeling started in the pit of Sarah's stomach. It began to grow until she could no longer remain in her seat.

“Emilio!” she said, poking the rapt Italian in his shoulder.

“
Sì
!” he replied without turning to look at her, and then lifted a hand to point at the stage. “They slide up from below—like a puzzle.”

Sarah frowned and shook her head. He was clearly going to be of no use unless she had something to show him. “I'm going to the water closet.” Emilio's only response was an absentminded nod.

Sarah pulled herself out of her seat, remembering at the last moment to take her bag. It contained something that Emilio had made for her, and even if the purse was too large to be genuinely ladylike, just holding it made her feel a little safer.

She softly begged forgiveness from the other theater-goers as she shimmied past them towards the aisle, her dress managing to get in everyone's way as she went.

When she finally escaped her row, Sarah realized that in order to access the curtain she had seen the two men disappear through, she would first need to walk all the way to the back of the theater and cross over to the far aisle.

She moved as fast as she could, reaching the back of the theater and rounding the turn before the blare of heavenly trumpets and a collective gasp from the audience drew her attention back to the stage: young Vincent had finally reached the top of the mountain, and the mechanical wall was vanishing downward as a gleaming metal city rose into view.

Men in white stood at the top of the cliff, their faces covered with silver masks that were clearly meant to be reminiscent of the face of the pneumatic man himself. Tom's visage was everywhere tonight, it seemed.

Sarah turned her gaze back to the floor and stomped along, following the red carpet until she finally reached the heavy red curtains that framed the doorway. Pulling them apart, she stepped inside.

The little chamber beyond was quieter, and when the thick curtains fell back into place, they muffled the sounds of the show. There was a door in front of her. Sarah opened it and began climbing up a small set of stairs.

At the top was the backstage area she had visited when she had been here last. The theater was alive now, buzzing with actors and stagehands moving as they prepared the different mechanical animals for their appearance on the main stage.

A few of the stagehands looked at her as she walked in, but most of them seemed too busy to take any real interest in her, and no one came to question her sudden appearance.

Sitting in the back was the pneumatic man. He was unfolded now, his arms and legs attached to the wires that would give him the illusion of life, almost prepared for his moment of glory on the main stage.

There was literal fire in his eyes now, along with a trail of steam that rose up from the stovepipe on his head. It truly did remind Sarah of the Industrialist's hat—she wondered what her father would think of that.

Sarah looked around to see if she could find the men she had followed, but they were nowhere to be seen. She took a deep breath and plunged into the mayhem, dodging and weaving through the organized chaos all around her until she reached the door to the garden. Like the previous entrance, this one had also been left ajar. These were men clearly without manners…

Sarah's eyes went wide when she saw what was on the other side—as beautiful as the courtyard had been during the day, at night it was even more so. The rusting machines that had seemed so sad and neglected in the daylight were now given new life by flames inside of them that made them glow yellow and red.

Sarah was so entranced by the flickering creatures that she was startled when she heard a voice from nearby. “Let me try, Cutter!” It wasn't until she heard one of them speaking that Sarah even realized that the men she had been following were now standing directly in front of the workshop door, the short one attempting to break in.