The Iron Duke (22 page)

His skin flushed a dull red. “No. Or if I did, I didn’t notice.”

“Anyone else?”

Petrified with their eyes on the duke, only half responded with a shake of their head.

Trahaearn barked, “Anyone?”

This time there was a chorus of
No
s and heads whipping back and forth like monkey drums.

Mina nodded. “Thank you, gentlemen.”

She tried to escape quickly, but he caught her in the corridor, slamming his hand against the bulkhead in front of her and blocking her way. She stared over the gate of his left arm. Her feet hurt. She wanted to sit. She didn’t want to do
this
.

But there was one thing she needed to say.

“Thank you for defending my family’s honor, Your Grace.”

With light fingers, he brushed hair away from her face. She heard his deep sigh. “What do you need, inspector?”

Would he care for a list? But she couldn’t even drum that up. A better question: What could she have now?

“A cabin where I can be alone,” she said. “A washbasin, cold water, and hairpins.”

“I’ll see that you get them.” But he didn’t yet leave her. “Why wasn’t your brother taken to
Bontemps
? He had to know that if he told the Dame who he was, she would take him to ransom.”

Yes, he’d known. And her father had ordered Andrew to take that option if the need ever arose—but it wasn’t supposed to have arisen.
Marco’s Terror
should have been the safest ship in the Royal Navy, always surrounded by a fleet, never straying into uncertain waters. Mina didn’t know how many letters her father had written or favors he’d asked to make certain that Andrew was assigned to that ship. But they’d all been for naught, and that stupid,
stupid
boy hadn’t spoken up and said who he was.

“He knew we couldn’t pay the ransom. And he knew what we’d do to raise the money.”

“And what is that?”

“Whatever it took. And the most expedient way would be for my mother to break her contract with the Blacksmith, and sell her automata directly instead of through his shops. Andrew knew that—and he knew that the Blacksmith would take her eyes back if we did.”

He didn’t respond for a long second. “Wouldn’t it occur to your family to ask the Blacksmith for a reprieve?”

Was he joking? She looked up at him. He was frowning, his dark gaze serious. She couldn’t believe it.

“And warn the Blacksmith of what we planned to do? Why not tear out her eyes ourselves and hand them over?”

His eyes narrowed. “You lived beneath Horde rule for too long.”

Her laugh broke from her. Perhaps in another world, it was easy to trust that someone wouldn’t hurt them, given the opportunity. Perhaps it was easy to owe someone, despite knowing that the balance of your life rested on that debt.

“You have a talent for understatement, sir.”

Smiling, he lowered his arm. “I’ll find your cabin and pins, inspector.”

He turned to go. She stopped him with, “Who is Hunt?”

His shoulders stiffened. In all of this time, though they’d spoken of almost nothing but the
Terror
and the circumstances in which she’d been taken, he hadn’t mentioned Hunt to her, as if avoiding the topic. She was almost afraid to know why, but had to ask.

“Who is he, and what does it mean for the
Terror
’s crew?”

“He was Adams’s first lieutenant before the mutiny.” His hand curled into a fist at his thigh. “After I killed Adams, I deserted him with the other officers—but I should have killed Hunt, too.”

“Why?”

He didn’t answer. He said instead, “The ship needs a crew. Hunt will keep those who are useful to him.”

But that would be good for Andrew. So why wouldn’t he look at her? “Isn’t a midshipman useful?”

“Yes. In one way or another.”

Dread climbed up her throat. “What does that mean?”

“It means that at the Ivory Market, a fourteen-year-old boy
always
has a use.” He looked over his shoulder, and she saw his anger, his hatred—then all were masked by cold detachment. “It only depends on which use Hunt thought would be worth more.”

Though Mina had half expected that the duke wouldn’t let
her be after she’d been granted the use of a cabin, he left her alone. She sat on a narrow bed with her boots off, trying not to let her sick worry for Andrew overwhelm her, until the blue skies and white clouds outside the porthole turned to a flat, dull gray.

She went above decks, satisfied that her short coat lay as straight as could be, that she’d scrubbed the smoke from her face and rubbed her boots to a dull shine, that even a hurricane couldn’t loosen the coil of hair at her nape. Without her overcoat, the wind immediately set her to shivering. She’d be damned if she’d let it show, though. She nodded to the duke and the airship captain on the quarterdeck, and joined Newberry, who stood with the cluster of boys near the cargo platform, and who formed a sufficient windbreak.

As always, barges and boats crowded the Thames, and the bridges were in full use. From this vantage point, the Southwark slums were a smoking ruin, with only a few buildings left inhabitable. The Horde’s tower appeared small and broken—and old Westminster Palace not much better off. The Embankment looked an eyesore. Intended as a new roadway along the north bank of the Thames, the revolution had brought a halt to the Horde project before the construction had been half-finished. Visible girders and struts poked through the foundation, and piles of rubble and muck dotted the bank. But it hadn’t been a complete loss. The intended road surface was used as a gravel walk, and trees had been planted along the way to ameliorate the ugliness of it. A few areas had been designated as gardens, featuring lawns and tended flower beds, and provided a pleasant detour whenever Mina had reason to walk in that direction.

The muscles of her neck ached from trying not to shiver, yet she tensed further when Trahaearn drew next to her. The warmth of his breath near her ear only made the rest of her seem colder.

“We’re in luck there’s no fog,” he said. “Yasmeen would be just as likely to dump us in the river as in that garden.”

A garden chock-full of people waited. Unless one of them was Superintendent Hale, Mina would not be staying. She would get through them as quickly as possible.

“Yes, Your Grace,” she said, and although she felt his gaze upon her, didn’t look at him. On the cargo platform, she didn’t let him maneuver close, but slipped behind Newberry to stand on the constable’s opposite side.

The platform slowly lowered, landing gently on the grass. Young men and parents surged together, blocking easy exit. Sighing, she looked past Newberry to Trahaearn, who did not seem in a hurry to get off—though for once he wasn’t staring at her. Mina glanced up.

Lady Corsair had slid down the platform’s chains, stopping twenty feet above their heads. Braids dangling, she hung almost upside down and blew a kiss to someone on the ground. A man had joined Trahaearn at the edge of the platform, and he stared up at her laughing, his hand over his heart. Scarsdale, Mina recognized.

“I love you, Yasmeen!”

The mercenary grinned. “Will you marry me, then?”

“Will you come down from the sky?”

“For the likes of you? Never.”

Scarsdale laughed again and finally lowered his gaze to the duke’s.

Though Trahaearn’s didn’t speak loudly, his voice carried to Mina well enough. “Hunt has the
Terror
.”

The expression that flickered over Scarsdale’s face erased the frivolity, left an emotion cold and predatory. It was gone again as he looked up to Lady Corsair. “So we’ll be seeing you tomorrow morning, then? It seems we have a ship to catch.”

“If you have enough gold, we’ll see.” She began climbing back up. “You’d all best be off my platform when I reach my lady’s decks.”

So they would be leaving tomorrow to find the
Terror
. One bright bit of news, to help Mina through the remainder of a day that would surely be hell. She turned to go.

“You’re not leaving, inspector.”

Unable to ignore that voice, she paused and faced Trahaearn from across the platform. “Yes, Your Grace, I am. I must report to my superior. Thank you for your assistance today. I wish you well on your journey.”

His face darkened. Scarsdale glanced at him, at Mina, and rattled the platform chain with a kick of his booted foot.

“I say, captain, Yasmeen will dump you off soon.”

The duke’s brows came together. He frowned at the other man.

Scarsdale continued with a nod to the crowd. “Look there. That bushy codger in the mustard coat is old Munro, who’s been thumbing his nose at your Australian line and sending his cotton out on Harbor’s boats. Seeing as you’ve just rescued his grandson, I say we let his gratitude make the both of us richer men. Can’t waste an opportunity like this.”

And Trahaearn didn’t waste opportunities, Mina remembered.

“I’ll leave you to it, sir.” With a short nod to them both, Mina turned and slipped through the crowd, avoiding anyone who looked the least bit ragged, anyone with the sharp and hungry eye of a news-man. If Trahaearn came after her, no hope of avoiding them . . . but though her heart pounded, the only giant following her was Newberry.

 

 

“That old codger’s not one to waste an opportunity, is he?”
Scarsdale’s slurred comment didn’t require a response. Well on his way to drunk, he slouched in the steamcoach’s bench, still celebrating—and preparing himself for tomorrow morning. The bounder hadn’t boarded an airship conscious for years, but with Hunt as their prey, Scarsdale might try. Conscious, but he’d still need to be three sheets to the wind. It’d take him a while to get to that point, however . . . whereas Rhys was trying to shake off the effects of one brandy raised to his honor.

And he’d wasted too many hours on Munro. On the
Terror
, he’d often sailed out of a port on a moment’s notice. But even though Rhys had a capable staff under him, he couldn’t do the same now. He’d have to work through the night to have everything in order for his departure, and this agreement with Munro had just added another item to the list.

He glanced at the traffic out the window as the steamcoach idled again. Not even past the Banqueting House yet. At this rate, driving out to the island would take another two or three hours, too.
All right.
He could use this time to start making that list, or he could lean his head back, close his eyes, and imagine how his inspector would display her gratitude when he returned with her brother.

She’d only just unbuttoned his breeches when Scarsdale said, “The Admiralty will be out for your blood.”

Rhys sighed and opened his eyes, wishing that the bounder prattled when drunk. Then he could have ignored the man and carried on. But although soused, Scarsdale remained sharp as a cutlass.

“They’ve always been out for it,” Rhys said. With good reason. No matter how bad a captain Adams had been, a mutiny couldn’t be tolerated. Their failure to recapture
Marco’s Terror
had been another blow, as had every piece of cargo Rhys had taken from English ships while captaining her. No one despised his pardon and title more than the Board of Admiralty.

“But they’ve never had to pretend an alliance with you—and depend on your silence to keep up that pretense.”

Rhys had to grin at that. They’d learned from Munro that even before
Lady Corsair
had passed into London, the navy had already been spreading the story that the attack on the Dame’s fort had been a joint effort between himself and the Royal Navy. Rhys had led the rescue while they’d bombarded the fort to destroy the weapon.

He hadn’t contradicted the story. Never before had the navy been beholden to him, but he hadn’t yet decided how they would pay for it. For now, he was simply pleased that the opportunity was there if he wanted to take advantage of it.

Scarsdale tipped his bottle up and grimaced at the small amount in the bottom. A look out of the coach made him groan. “I’ll be sober again by the time we—” He broke off, squinting. “I say, isn’t that the inspector’s man?”

Rhys glanced out. By the light of the gas lamps lining the street, he recognized Newberry’s unmistakable bulk seated on the bench of his rattle-trap cart. Parked along the walk not far from police headquarters, but not even idling. No steam wafted from the vents. Waiting then.

For the inspector? It was well past eight o’clock. She ought to have been home. Frowning, Rhys rapped on the ceiling of the coach. Jumping out into traffic was only slightly less harrowing than sprinting through a zombie forest, but Rhys made it to the cart in one piece.

The constable straightened when he saw Rhys’s approach. Hope seemed to brighten his expression.

What the hell did he need to hope for?

Rhys glanced toward the headquarters building. “Is the inspector still in there?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Then why are you out here?”

“I’m under orders to go home, sir. But my standing orders are not to let her go home unescorted. And so I’m on my way home. I simply stopped for a bit of air.”

And was waiting for the inspector to walk by, Rhys realized. “Why wasn’t she ordered to go home?”

She’d been bruised, burned. The bugs would heal her, but she’d still be feeling the toll that the escape from the fort had taken on her body. Hell, even Rhys was still feeling it.

“They’re still debating whether to strip her of rank for insubordination and for interfering with a naval operation, sir, or to relieve her of duty.”

Rhys stilled. Rage spiked through him, cold and hard. Slowly, he met the man’s eyes. “Go on home, Newberry. I’ll see that she’s escorted.”

The constable nodded, and for an instant Rhys saw the ferocity beneath the friendly, houndlike features.