Shadow Conspiracy (35 page)

“We may have raised enough money,” Elizabeth said. She was sitting at her desk, going over the receipts. The room was high-ceilinged, and panelled in walnut, but it faced east and got the morning sun. While the house was far smaller than Lady Fortescue’s, it too had a library. Elizabeth frequented hers; the lady had a small dark affair used only to store books.

Jane sat on a window seat, reading a book on dirigibles. She nodded in response.

“Are you sure you want to be part of the expedition? You are not required to do so.”

Jane smiled. “You have already told everyone of any importance in the United Kingdom that I am going. I certainly cannot withdraw now.” Her English was excellent, though she retained a trace of French accent.

“You may do anything you want. I know your researches are important to you.” Jane was doing experiments in electromagnetism in the basement.

“Yes, but you also know I long for physical exertion. Target shooting and teaching ladies self defence is far from sufficient. My researches will be here when I return. And besides, you count on my succeeding, so you can show one more thing women might do.”

“I do,” Elizabeth admitted. “And I know you will be much better at the task than any of those foolish young men.”

“Yes. I am a very good killer.” She said it lightly, but Elizabeth jumped to her feet and rushed to her side.

“You have never killed without necessity, darling,” she said, putting her arms around the younger woman.

“I know.” Jane closed her eyes. “I am all right. But the fact remains that such a task as this requires someone who knows she can kill. The others will be soldiers. An ordinary woman, one who has never been at risk for her life, could not do this.”

“I suppose that is true. And you have more reason than most to hate these manufactured creatures.”

“Yes,” Jane said.

Elizabeth
had begun her fight against manmade life soon after their return from New Orleans. Her first effort was political: a campaign to outlaw automatons—who had become known as metalmen. That effort reached its pinnacle some six years previous, when Elizabeth and Jane had testified before the 1833 session of Parliament.

The measure failed by a large majority. “To be blunt,” said a friend of Elizabeth’s who served as an advisor to one of the few MPs in favour of the ban, “your testimony probably produced a few votes for the other side. When you and Miss Jane described how the metalmen could be used in a battle, several thought immediately of expanding their use in His Majesty’s Army.”

“How could they think that way? Did we not adequately describe the horrors?”

“They saw themselves on the side of those running the metalmen, Elizabeth. Not on the side of their victims.”

After that, Elizabeth turned her not inconsiderable organizing talents to more direct methods. But destroying all the metalmen in existence proved an insurmountable task; the British army was not the only military force in the world that saw the benefit of the metal warriors, and their use as servants was growing popular. There were far too many to wipe out.

A campaign against ensouled automatons, however, proved possible. The various governments had prohibited ensoulment—as indeed they prohibited various kinds of black magicks—though it was suspected that the prohibition had more to do with the idea that soldiers and servants without souls gave better service.

And the Prometheus, that all but mythical creature whose debut had provided the designers of automata with evidence that creation of life was possible, he—it—was fair game. Elizabeth, recognizing the value of fighting something so symbolic, had taken up the challenge.

Jane knew that Elizabeth needed this fight, that it was her way of coping with the massacre. But though she had lost much more than Elizabeth, Jane did not take comfort from this struggle. It was not the metalmen she hated, but the men who used them for evil purposes. And there seemed to be no way to fight against such men; their ranks expanded every day.

In many ways, Jane was living a fairy tale. She had not known, until she came to London, how much there was to learn in this world. True, as a child she had learned to hunt and fight, to navigate along the bayou, to find wild herbs, but she had been taught nothing of physics, of cosmology, of mathematics. She hungered to learn, and Elizabeth indulged her in this. The joy of it astounded her.

But she never forgot that she had such opportunities because her people had been wiped out. The memory of that night haunted her dreams, and there were days when she hated herself for being happy. Much as she loved her life, she would have given it up without a second thought if doing that would bring back her people.

She didn’t believe that killing the Prometheus would free her from the memories that haunted her, but she knew Elizabeth believed it. And she loved Elizabeth.

Near the end of that summer, Jane received a letter. While it was not unusual for Jane to receive letters—she corresponded with a number of scientists—this one lacked any information about the sender and was addressed in a hand unknown to her. It said, simply, “The Prometheus will not be found in any duchy or kingdom in eastern Europe.” There was no signature.

The reports they had on the Prometheus claimed it had been spotted in various countries—Bohemia, Croatia, Serbia, Moldavia, Albania. Sightings were never reported in France or Italy, and certainly not in England. The same Englishmen who considered Jane a savage thought much the same of the people of central and eastern Europe, and assumed it a logical place for anyone who might want to hide.

Jane did not show the letter to Elizabeth. If the letter were more than anonymous rubbish meant to taunt her, the author would likely write again. If not, then there was no reason for Elizabeth to be told of it.

Several other letters followed.

The second letter said, “Nor will you find him in any European republic.” The third, “He is not in the caliphate.” The fourth, “And certainly you should not seek to find him in the depths of Russia.”

Jane noticed that the letters all referred to the Prometheus as “he,” though everyone she knew preferred to say “it.” Other than that, she could deduce little from the letters, except that they contradicted all the reports Elizabeth had received.

The next letter said, “Meet me in the churchyard of St. James’s Church, Piccadilly, at nine in the evening on Thursday.” That church was no more than a fifteen minute walk from Elizabeth’s home in the West End of London.

Jane considered showing this letter to Elizabeth. But while she knew that Elizabeth would not forbid her to go—indeed, Elizabeth placed no restrictions on her behaviour—she also knew that Elizabeth would insist on sending others with her. A crowd might frighten her correspondent away, and while he—or she—might be merely a raving lunatic, Jane wanted to hear what might be said.

On Thursday after dinner, Elizabeth withdrew to her office to read. Jane made a show of retiring early. At about half past eight, she slipped out the back door of the house—her childhood skills at stealth had not deserted her.

As summer was waning, it was full dark at that hour, but the gaslights had been lit. A few people hurried along the streets. Jane pulled a heavy black scarf over her head to conceal her all-too-remarkable features. None of the others paid her any mind.

The three-quarter hour struck as Jane arrived. No lights shone at the church and the churchyard, which had no artificial lighting, appeared deserted. Jane seated herself on a tombstone to wait. Except for the chirping of crickets and other insect noises, and an occasional hoot from an owl, the place was quiet.

The nine-o’clock bells rang. As the sound faded, Jane heard the rustling of a person walking in her general direction. Silently, she slipped off the tombstone and hid behind it. She wanted to see this person before being seen, and, as she had been sitting in the dark, her eyes had become accustomed to the lack of light. She made out a person walking through the gate. A man, she guessed, or at least a person attired as a man, for she could see the shape of a gentleman’s hat on his head, and heard no swish of a skirt as he walked along.

He stopped just inside the gate and looked from one direction to the other. Jane moved up beside him while he peered in the opposite direction and was rewarded with his sudden start when he realized she was there. She kept her hand on her knife handle—she had not come unarmed to this meeting.

“Miss Freemantle?”

“I am. And you are?”

“My name is not important. I am here on behalf of more people than myself. We are in sympathy with the aims of your estimable guardian and those with whom she works, but we fear that they are somewhat ill-informed. Their current efforts will not find the Prometheus.” He spoke excellent English, but with an accent that Jane did not recognize. Not an Englishman, then.

“Why not approach them directly, sir, instead of seeking me out on the sly?”

“Alas, there have been certain words said, certain disagreements. Some of the people with whom I am associated dared to challenge Mr. Frayle’s gun design. Others have criticized tactics. Those whom you serve will not hear us out.”

“And why should I?”

“Because, Miss Freemantle, you are more skilled and intelligent than they. You, who can move so silently that even an experienced campaigner such as myself was unaware of you, who have studied mathematics and physics, and also know something of human nature. You are a person who will be more likely to hear us out.”

Jane was not so foolish as to be unduly flattered by the compliments, though they were pleasant to hear. “I will listen, but I make no promise to believe.”

“In July of last year, an airship travelled from Scotland to the Americas.”

Jane inhaled sharply. “Successfully?” Transatlantic flights were considered highly dangerous.

“Yes. They flew to Newfoundland, a somewhat shorter distance. Then they flew southwest across the continent—a safer journey, since they could set down as needed—to the island of Galveston in the Republic of Texas.

“That ship, Miss Freemantle, carried the Prometheus, and his champion, the writer Mrs. Shelley.”

“Why has no one else heard of this?”

“It was carefully planned. The Prometheus was, indeed, hiding in eastern Europe for many years, but as campaigns such as that organized by your guardian became more common here, those in sympathy with him decided that they must move him to the Americas, where there is less interest in such matters, especially on the frontier. Eventually they found an airman willing to take the risk.”

“And how did you learn of this?”

“The airman is cousin to one in our group.”

Jane had removed a tin from her pocket, and she struck a match and held it in front of the man’s face. The light showed a dark complexion—though not as dark as her own—and a neatly trimmed beard. The face was unfamiliar.

“I am unimportant,” the man said again. He did not appear to be offended by her examination. “They have a fine house on Church Street, in Galveston and keep a small blimp there, in the event that they should need to leave abruptly. But of course, that is less likely in, a city once run by pirates and even now less concerned with law than most.”

“Again, why do you tell me? Could you not send out your own people, since you know so much?”

“We have neither the resources, nor a person as skilled as yourself to send. Of the many trying to eliminate the Prometheus, you have the best chance. We offer you this information in the hope that you will do something with it.” He turned to leave, then added, “Do not rely overly on Frayle’s gun.”

“How do I kill the Prometheus without it? Regular guns and even the sharpest of blades are reputed to be useless.”

“You will find a way,” the man said, and slipped out the gate.