“What is it?” the Electress asked, looking over the device Anatol had placed on her desk. It consisted of two main components, a wooden stock joined at one end to a strip of sprung steel. The steel strip was curved thanks to the length of thick twine attached to both ends. The stock featured an ingenious modification that couldn’t help but stir Lizanne’s professional admiration.
“A cross-bow,” she said. “But not a design I’ve seen before.” She tapped a finger to the mechanical fixed to the stock. “A geared-lever arrangement and box magazine for the darts. The lever enables the user to draw back the string and reload in one movement, allowing for rapid fire. It would require a strong pair of arms to work, though.”
“The Scuttler we found it on was strong enough,” Anatol said. “Took three knife blows to bring him down.”
“You get any more?” the Electress asked.
Anatol shook his head. “They were already running when we got there. Counted about a dozen, less the one who had this.”
“Eight dead customers, and the loss of a night’s takings, for one Scuttler.” The Electress sank into her chair, match flaring as she lit the inevitable cigarillo. “That’s a poor rate of exchange, I’d say.” She looked at Melina and inclined her head at the cross-bow. “Tinkerer’s work, would you say?”
“It’s certainly clever enough for him,” the tall woman replied with reluctant honesty. “But I’d say not. His mechanicals tend to have a more refined appearance. Besides, he never makes weapons. Not for anyone else, at least.”
“King Coal must have gotten them from somewhere,” Anatol said.
“Most probably from the same hands that crafted that bomb,” Lizanne suggested. “I’m starting to think he managed to find himself a talented new-comer.”
“Him and me both,” the Electress replied, without much conviction.
“I’ll gather the lads.” Anatol started towards the door. “Time we finished this.”
“I’d best go too,” Lizanne said, moving to follow.
“You’ll both do what the fuck I tell you to do!” the Electress snapped, smoke blossoming in an angry cloud. “When I tell you to do it.” Her face took on a stony aspect as she calmed herself before turning to Melina. “What do you know?”
“A bomb went off in the Pit Number Three winding tower about three hours ago. Wrecked the gear and left two Scuttlers dead. Any coal they get from that seam will have to be hand-carted up from now on.”
“Meaning most’ll starve before long,” Anatol said with a satisfied grimace. “The constables won’t give two turds about their problems. No coal, no food. Saves us a good deal of killing.”
A thin sigh escaped the Electress’s lips as she closed her eyes and rubbed stubby, yellow-stained fingers into her temples. “Starving men are desperate men,” she said. “And desperate men have no fear when it comes to a fight. Two Verdigris died here tonight, which means Chuckling Sim will feel obliged to respond, which means the Wise Fools will start itching to take advantage. When the whole city gets to fighting it’s a safe bet the constables will have more than two turds to give.”
She sat back, clasping her meaty hands together, brow furrowed in contemplation. “Send word to the pits,” she muttered. “Triple guard tonight. Make sure everyone’s armed up. No one sleeps. Now piss off downstairs and let me think.”
? ? ?
Makario sat at the pianola, shoulders slumped as his finger tapped a dull thunk from one of the keys. The bodies had been cleared away, after a thorough looting, and efforts made to mop up the blood, though the worst stains still lingered on the boards. “I’m sure it’s fixable,” Lizanne said, moving to the musician’s side. “Just strings and wood, after all.”
His eyes flashed at her in momentary resentment, his normally fine features twisting into something she hadn’t seen before. “What do you know about music?” he demanded in a harsh whisper. “You can name tunes, but what does your killer’s heart really know?”
Some measure of surprise must have shown on her face for he sighed, closing his eyes and turning away. “I’m sorry,” he said, splaying his delicate fingers over the keys. “It’s just . . . She was a wreck when I found her, the last surviving pianola in the whole of Scorazin. It took months of work to nurse her back to health, make her sing again. The Electress’s little project to bring music to the Miner’s Repose. It kept me alive. Now . . .” He played a short melody, still recognisable despite the dull thud of keys on ruined strings. “What am I without her, Krista?”
Dead, Lizanne thought. Like everyone else in here. But then, you always were.
She was tempted to lean closer and whisper her knowledge into his ear; I know what you did. His reaction would be bound to reveal something useful, but she resisted. Not out of sentiment, she told herself, only partially feeling it to be a lie. A card to be played when the pot’s swollen to its fullest.
She had been calculating the likely effect the bombing and subsequent massacre would have on her plan and knew the Learned Damned would be making their own calculations. It was possible, of course, that they had taken the bomb she gave them and put it to this unexpected use. However, she could see no reason why they would. Wrong time, and the wrong kind of chaos. A gang-war avails us nothing since the constables will simply let us starve until it quiets down. She considered slipping away to confer with Demisol and Helina, but knew it could well prove a fatal gamble. A dozen more Furies had been drafted in from the mines as additional security. They were a contrast to the slothful guards she had evaded to contact Tinkerer, experienced and keen-eyed veterans of gang-wars within and without these walls likely to notice her absence. So the Learned Damned would have to wait as she suffered the unwelcome sensation of being unable to influence events.
She let her hand fall to the keys, tapping out a tune and humming the accompanying melody, one she had last heard drifting out across shell-blasted trenches half a world away. “The Leaves of Autumn,” Makario said, his lips forming a faint smile of recognition. “My old grandmamma’s favourite.”