Anatol came lurching towards her out of the lingering smoke, face pale but for the blood streaming from a cut to his brow. He held a large cosh in one hand and a curve-bladed knife in the other. The grim purpose in his gaze made Lizanne crouch in readiness, her hand going to the sheathed knife at the small of her back. Anatol’s advance halted as the Electress rose between them. Lizanne couldn’t hear the order she gave but it was enough for the body-guard to return his weapons to the folds of his coat. The Electress turned to regard Lizanne, face expressionless. She had a large splinter embedded in one meaty shoulder but exhibited no sign of pain as she considered her saviour. Lizanne could almost hear the gears churning in her head. How did she know? Was it a ploy to gain favour? Should I kill her and have done?
Finally the Electress grunted and turned towards the Miner’s Repose. She paused for a moment to take in the sight of the shattered windows and blackened timbers before striding towards the entrance on steady legs, waving for Lizanne and Anatol to follow.
? ? ?
“The Scuttlers,” Melina said. She used scissors to snip off the thread trailing from the final stitch in Anatol’s forehead, then traced an affectionate hand over his mis-shapen face before turning to the Electress, face and voice hardening. “It has to be. We should kill every one of those fuckers.”
The Electress sat behind her desk, a large blood-stained bandage on her shoulder and a cigarillo poised before her lips. There were a dozen extinguished cigarillos in the ash-tray on her desk and she barely seemed to hear Melina’s words, heavy brows drawn in thought as she smoked.
“It was too clever,” Anatol rumbled, sinking back into his chair and smiling thanks as Melina passed him a cup of brandy. “King Coal hasn’t the wit for something like this.”
“Julesin might,” Melina replied.
“Julesin’s a killer to the core, true enough,” the body-guard agreed. “But not a bomber. A bomb requires a whole other set of skills.” His gaze flicked to Lizanne. “Skills an insurgent might possess.”
“She was with me the whole time,” Makario spoke up. He sat in the corner fiddling with an old viola, occasionally plucking a discordant note from the strings. “Besides,” he added, nodding at the Electress, “I think she demonstrated her loyalty well enough.”
“There are other revolutionaries in this city,” Melina pointed out. “Wouldn’t put it past the Learned Damned to hire themselves out for the right price.” She looked at the Electress expectantly, suppressing an annoyed grimace when she received no response. “I’ll take a dozen lads round to that manor of theirs,” she prompted. “See what they know.”
Electress Atalina’s eyes flicked to her, narrowing in dismissal, holding the stare until Melina took a step back from the desk. The Electress stubbed her cigarillo into the ash-tray before fixing her gaze on Lizanne. She had been instructed to sit on a small couch resting against the wall, too far away from the window or the door to offer a swift escape. “How’s your ears?” the Electress asked.
“Not so bad I can’t hear,” Lizanne replied.
The Electress stared at her for a long moment, gears still grinding behind her eyes. “So,” she said finally. “What do you know?”
“There seems to be a dearth of timepieces in this city,” Lizanne said. She said nothing else and the puzzled silence lasted several seconds.
“So?” Melina demanded.
“It was timed,” the Electress said.
“Yes,” Lizanne said. “I imagine the constituent ingredients for an explosive compound aren’t hard to accumulate within these walls. Sulphur and charcoal would be easy to come by. Saltpetre would be more difficult but there are alternatives, dried bird shit for example makes for an excellent oxidiser. However, the scale of the blast indicates a bomb-maker with extensive experience and expertise. As does the use of a timing device.”
“Which would require a clock,” the Electress said.
“Or the skills to make one from scratch.”
Lizanne watched the Electress exchange glances with Anatol and Melina.
“He wouldn’t,” Melina said, Lizanne noting the defensive note in her voice. “He’d never hurt a fly, you know that. More likely, someone slipped the constables an off-the-books sack in return for a pocket-watch.”
“Which would attract attention,” the Electress said. “After all, who’d spend so much just to tell time in this pit?” She switched her gaze back to Lizanne. “Still haven’t told us how you knew.”
“Burns on his face and fingers missing from his left hand,” Lizanne replied. “Hazards of the bomb-making profession. My guess is he designed the device and mixed the powder, but he would need help to adapt a timepiece and connect it to the detonator.”
Melina stiffened a little, stepping closer to the desk. “Electress . . .”
“I’m not rushing to any judgements, Mel,” Electress Atalina told her. “But, at the very least, I think you should have a little chat with the young fellow.” She returned her gaze to Lizanne. “Take our new employee, see what she makes of the Tinkerer.”
CHAPTER 19
Clay
“So you really saw it?” Scrimshine asked, one of many questions he had voiced over the preceding hours. The revelation of their purpose here had left the old smuggler’s weathered features drawn in fascination, as well as engendering a bothersome curiosity.
“Yeah, I really saw it,” Clay muttered in response, eyes fixed on the seam between the ice and the spire. He had wandered this section of the base a dozen times now, pick in hand, finding no sign of anything that might be called an entrance.
“And drank its blood?” Scrimshine persisted.
“That too.”
Clay crouched and chipped away at the ice with the pick, chiselling out a small depression in the surface. Hilemore had already organised his sailors to hack out a deeper hole on the spire’s south-facing side, getting down to five feet before he called a halt. So far, all their efforts had revealed no way into the spire and no clue as to its origin. Steelfine had tested the surface of the structure with a few hammer-blows, leaving no impression except on the hammer. Attempts to chip out small pieces for close inspection proved equally fruitless. Whatever material had been used to construct the spire was far beyond their knowledge or experience.
“How’d you manage that?” Scrimshine asked.
“I shot it.” Clay gave a small grunt of frustration and got to his feet. “It didn’t die.”