Brilliant Devices

chapter 24



Lizzie and Maggie could not have been more delighted to be in charge of the diversion. Claire was not so sure this was the right course—though it seemed to be their only one. Since the three guarding the airship knew the twins, they would at least allow them to get closer than they might allow Andrew or Claire herself, who were strangers.

And the one called Alan had seen Claire’s failed attempt to come to the rescue of Frederick Chalmers.

So there they went, the two little girls in striped stockings and ruffled skirts, dancing and gamboling as they led Seven, Eight, and Nine across the airfield toward the cargo ship. It looked like two kittens leading a trio of tall, awkward storks.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Andrew said in a low tone next to her, behind the closet trunk.

“So do I. They did assure us they have acted as a diversion before.”

“Were there guns involved?”

“I do not know. And now is not the time to think of such things. I am quite anxious enough.”

“Hey!” Alan called, leaving off marching. He approached the girls, carelessly balancing his rifle over his shoulder like a vagrant’s pole. “What are you two doing out so late?”

“We didn’t want to go to bed,” Lizzie told him with a giggle. “We stole the automatons and we’re taking them forl aes>

< a walk. See?”

“You rascals,” he said with a chuckle. “Who do those belong to?”

“We dunno,” they said together. “Aren’t they fine?” Maggie added.

By this time Bob and Joe had joined them, and by their relaxed posture, considered the girls no threat. In fact, Bob put his hands on his hips and laughed outright. “Don’t you two beat all. What are you going to do with them?”

Maggie looked at Lizzie, who shrugged, grinning. “Perhaps we can ride them pick-a-back.”

“They’re too tall, Liz.”

“Too tall?” Alan snorted. “I s’pose everything looks tall to little mites like you. Look, they’re not as tall as Bob and me.”

“Are so.” Lizzie crossed her arms. “Garn. Stand next to ’em so we can see.”

Bob and Alan straightened up next to two of the gleaming bronze figures, one in front of each. “Come on, Joe, you’re the shortest of us all and I bet even you are taller than that thing.”

Joe rolled his eyes and sloped over. “Are you two so bored? Got nothing better to do?”

“Humor the little ladies, you old cross-patch. Now, girls, who wants to bet—”

“Seven, Eight, Nine, hold the man,” Lizzie commanded.

Simultaneously, the automatons turned, passed their upper appendages—for, since they possessed all manner of parts built into them, they could not properly be called arms—about the men, imprisoning them against their metal bodies.

Bob roared and kicked his legs, then bucked like a horse that has never felt the saddle. All to no avail. Nine stood as if rooted to the spot, clutching him about the torso so that he could neither quite touch the ground nor elbow the automaton away.

“Go!” Andrew said.

Claire staggered a little as blood flowed back into her cramped legs, and sprinted behind the automatons as Maggie and Lizzie led them up the gangway and into the ship.

The men made a terrible ruckus until Andrew took up a rifle and used the butt of it to render them temporarily unconscious. They slumped in the automatons’ hold, while the grip of the latter only tightened further.

“Maggie, Lizzie, well done,” Claire told them.

“Stay with them,” Andrew said. “We will search the ship and return as fast as we can.”

“What if they wake up?” Maggie asked.

“Cosh ’em again.” He tossed the rifle to her, and she caught it by reflex, then staggered under its unexpected weight.

“I do wish you would not incite the children to violence,” Claire told him as they made quick work of searching the navigation gondola. “It is bad enough that I must resort to it from time to time in this dangerous countrngea. “Iy.”

“There will be time enough for fine manners and grace when we get ourselves out of this,” Andrew said, his jaw flexing as if he were holding back a much stronger opinion. “Though I must say, I will have a whole new appreciation of the resourcefulness of ladies after this.”

Was he thinking of Alice? Was he already regretting that he had not leaped aboard the Stalwart Lass when he had the chance? Alice would have welcomed him. And if she did not, an educated and trained engineer would not go amiss in any crew in the skies.

But Claire did not have the courage to ask him, and now was not the time in any case. She must not allow her mind to wander to matters of the heart—if he were indeed here, the count’s life would depend on quick action and clear thinking.

In fact, perhaps she ought not to think about matters of the heart at all. Because it was a stark and simple fact that she could not make up her mind where men were concerned. She had kissed three—once on purpose, twice not—and the only conclusion she could come to was that, on a purely sensory level, kissing was a most pleasurable occupation. But what it meant was an impenetrable jungle of feeling and emotion that she simply was not ready to explore. It was too strange, too frightening … and too permanent.

She had proven herself capable when it came to helping her friends out of tight spots—and getting out of them herself. But she was as clumsy and inexperienced as a fawn when it came to the connection of committed affection, and she had no idea if it got easier as time went on.

Andrew assisted her up the ladder and onto the coaxial catwalk that ran the length of the ship. “The cargo area will be through those doors,” he said. “You might power up that rifle, in case there are guards there, too. They may have heard our friends shouting and be ready with an ambush.”

Right. This was not the time to be mooning over men. She must collect herself and be ready to face whatever lay behind that door. But first—

She unholstered the rifle and laid her free hand on Andrew’s arm. “Thank you for being with me,” she said softly. “I should find this very hard to face without your company.”

He turned to her, surprise in his brown eyes. “That is the last thing I should ever have expected you to say.”

“What, thank you?”

“No. You are the most fearless, capable woman I know, along with Alice and Lady Dunsmuir and Isobel Churchill.”

Alice. First in his thoughts, first in his heart.

“Fearless?” She huffed a laugh. “Hardly. There may not be much time for terror, but believe me when I say I feel it.”

He grinned at her. “Don’t destroy my illusions. Come. Let us storm the door. Together.”

He pushed the door open, and together they stepped inhey on to a large cargo space, illuminated by a strip of electricks that ran from strut to strut of the iron gridwork supporting the fuselage. Claire’s hands tensed on the rifle, but the two of them were not accosted. In fact, the space was silent except for the excited scrabble of rats, off to one side, down one of the alleys formed of boxes and crates.

Andrew inhaled and his shoulders lost some of their tension. “I do not believe there is a guard. Hush. Was that a cat?”

A mewling sound issued from the darkness. “A cat … or a person who has been gagged?” Claire whispered.

Slowly, cautiously, fully expecting a guard to leap, firing, out of the shadows, they made their way down the corridor, dirt crunching under their soles. An odd smell hung in the air, like smoke and kerosene and something sour.

The mewling sound came again. Claire flicked the lever on the lightning rifle, and it hummed to life. The globe on its underside began to glow as the lightning woke, flickering and exploring its rounded prison. She held the rifle upright so that the globe became a lamp.

“Mmmph!” someone said in response to the light.

“That is not a cat, nor a rodent,” she said, and stepped out of the darkness of the corridor into a wider area formed by crates piled high.

On a pallet on the floor lay a man with his hands and feet tied behind him, his knees bent nearly double so that his ankles and wrists could be tied together. A calico sack did duty as a hood, concealing his face. But no sack could conceal the fact that he was in evening dress, his white shirt front gray with grime and dried blood, his tie gone altogether, and his trousers torn.

“Count von Zeppelin?” Claire said softly, rushing to his side. “It is I, Claire, with Mr. Malvern. We shall have you free in a moment.”

From the pocket of his duster, which he had had replaced in Edmonton, Andrew pulled a knife, its lethal blade advertising to everyone that it had been made by Mr. Bowie in the Texican Territory. The ropes parted as if they had been made of pie pastry, and when Claire whisked off the hood, the count gasped and curled up, his knees to his chest, as if to give relief to muscles that had been strained in the other direction to the point of torture.

“Count, are you hurt?” Claire said quickly. “Bones broken, wounds?”

“Nein,” he gasped. “Blood is returning. I shall be … all right in a moment.”

She and Andrew massaged his lower limbs until the blood flowed unobstructed and he was able to stand. “Thank the merciful God you found me. Is there any water?”

Andrew surveyed the barren prison. “Not here, I’m afraid. We shall search the galley once we reach the gondola.”

Half carrying the older man, Andrew helped him down the corridor while Claire went ahead with the rifle-turned-lamp. It took ages to get him down the ladder from the catwalk, but she could tell that with every step, his strength was returning.

They emerged, breathing heavily with exertion, into the navigation gondola.

Three automatons stood there at attention, as if waiting for a command.

Their prisoners were gone.

And so were the Mopsies.