Ticker Page 7

  “Patience is a virtue, Miss Farthing.” He turned on his heel and headed for a waiting elevator.

  There was no way of asking him to hurry without explaining why, so, for once, I remained silent. The interior of the elevator was a capsule of elegance, with brass rails, etched mirrors, and thick Bhaskarian carpeting. Marcus operated the various levers with the same quiet assurance that he’d demonstrated in the SkyDart. A pulley system activated, and we glided downward. There was no floor indicator; it was only by counting off the seconds that I knew we’d descended at least three stories below the landing platform by the time the doors slid open.

  The hall beyond was decorated with potted palm trees, jewel-toned rugs, and an extensive collection of curios alongside tattered leather-bound books, rolled maps, and globes of polished stone. Overhead, a system of bands and wheels rotated dozens of woven-straw fans. Formally dressed soldiers saluted as we passed. Plainly clad servitors carried silver trays set with message cylinders, ledgers, and other missives of importance. When the foot traffic cleared, a young woman sat in a chair opposite the elevator.

  “There you are, Legatus.” Though the unfamiliar woman wore the drab gray of the Ferrum Viriae, it was cut in the newest of fashions and embroidered collar to hem with metallic silver stars. Dangling green esmeraude earrings grazed her shoulders. Waist-length black braids cascaded down her back, and a Logodædaly Multilinguistic Translator dangled from her belt.

  Marcus drew up short. “What have you done to your uniform?”

  The newcomer looked down at her clothes with the air of one surprised to be wearing any. “This? A few minor alterations only.” A dozen bangles jangled on her arms alongside her iron bracelets when she turned her gaze upon me. “And you have the famous Miss Farthing with you, just as I knew you would.”

  I returned her keen look and raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, have we been introduced?”

  “Not in this lifetime,” was her cryptic response.

  Marcus located his tongue and his manners. “Penelope Farthing, I am pleased to introduce to you Philomena de Mesmer, recently appointed psychic consultant to the Ferrum Viriae.”

  A professional medium in Marcus’s employ? I’d have been less shocked by a monkey hanging from the rafters. “I beg your pardon?”

  Philomena cut in before he could respond. “I sent you a message, Miss Farthing. I hope you received it in time.”

  “I . . . did receive it, in fact.”

  Mind the third step from the bottom. It’s a bit tricky.

  And then I’d fallen on that precise stair at the Bibliothèca.

  Coincidence, surely . . .

  “I hope the information proved useful to you.” Her forehead puckered in the tiniest of frowns. “Messages from the Great Beyond are often subject to interpretation.”

  Now it was Marcus’s turn to be confused. “You sent Miss Farthing a note?”

  “Little more than an hour ago,” Philomena confirmed. “A personal correspondence, so perhaps I shouldn’t have used official stationery. My apologies, Legatus.” She set off down the hallway at a brisk clip. “I was headed to your office to deliver my report, then realized I could meet you at the elevator.”

  “Another premonition?” The words slipped out before I could stop them.

  “That, and the announcement over the loudspeakers.” Philomena tossed the words over her shoulder as she walked, leaving us to catch them and catch up.

  I glanced at Marcus. “The Ferrum Viriae subscribe to a belief in the occult?”

  He kept his gaze fixed forward. “We’re conducting research in all branches of science and technology.”

  “Science and technology? You can’t mean to tell me you’re counterweighing some of the greatest advances of this century with a belief in such jiggery-pokery. Parlor tricks? Smoke and mirrors?”

  A muscle in his jaw jumped at the accusation. “I’ve seen enough things in my lifetime to contemplate the possibilities of the next, Miss Farthing.”

  “As have I, and yet I refrain from such nonsense. As both an engineer and a person of science, I am absolutely appalled.” I had more to say on the subject, but Philomena whirled about to face us.

  “Come on then, we haven’t all day.” She strode backward with the confidence of one unconcerned with crashing into a large potted fern.

  I suppose psychic energy is good for more than just forecasting and fortune-telling. She wouldn’t need Starshine goggles to make her way through a dark room.

  “Received a portent of doom, have you?”

  “Oh, I receive all sorts of correspondence.” Philomena paused outside a carved door bearing Marcus’s name and rank etched in silver. “As I said in my note, your sister delivered another message to me this morning. Dimitria has been trying to reach you for some time.”

  “Don’t.” I sucked in a breath and struggled to calm myself. “Don’t you dare drag my sister’s name into your crystal-gazing hocus-pocus.”

  “Ordinarily I’d let you believe what you like, Miss Farthing, but your sister has been clogging up my communications with the Great Beyond to the point where I haven’t been able to meet with my other contacts at all.” The more Philomena explained, the more irritated she grew, until she prickled all over like a disgruntled porcupine. “I’ve important work to do here, and I don’t appreciate the distraction, to be honest.”

  I leveled a freezing stare at the woman, the sort that Grandmother Pendleton would use on an impertinent lady’s maid. “Miss de Mesmer, my mother visited every clairvoyant in the city limits and most in Meridia. They bilked her out of quite a sum, promising her they could contact my sister, and I can see that you are in the same sort of business. Good day to you.” I turned to Marcus, who looked like he was struggling to decide which of us to admonish first. “I’ll be inside, Legatus. If you wish to speak with me at all, you will do so alone.”

  Sweeping into his office, I dropped the bag of Eidolachometer cards in an empty chair. Curling in my fingers, I dug my nails into my palms and fought the tears that threatened.

  Dimitria.

  Thoughts of her were wrapped in fine linen, ribbon decorations, hushed whispers, Mama’s tears. Striving to put the here and now before the memories, I concentrated on my surroundings: the Ferrum Viriae shield hanging over the mantelpiece, the fireplace surround carved with images of the Twelve Engineers, the elaborate machines whirring away on marble pedestals. On the wall hung several pictures, a set of framed medals under glass, and an article from The Examiner, dated six months past.

  FUNERAL CONDUCTED FOR HEIR TO INDUSTRIA’S LARGEST PRIVATE ARMY

  By Orville Accardo

  A memorial service was held Saturday for Viktor Augustus Kingsley. Heir to the Ferrum Viriae empire, the twenty-two-year-old was killed during a training exercise gone badly wrong. Mister Kingsley was commanding a twelve-squadron live-fire exercise when an interruption in service to the secure RiPA lines put the young man in the wrong field position. Formal inquiries found no wrongdoing by any of the instructors nor the other soldiers involved.

  Like everyone else in the country, I’d read this in the broadsheets, but I’d forgotten until this moment that I wasn’t the only one suffering a loss.

  A noise sent me scurrying back to my chair, then Marcus entered alone. Standing just inside the door, he studied my face like it was an illuminated manuscript, with all the answers he needed written upon my features. Certain I had smudges of dirt upon my nose, I did my best not to squirm under his gaze. There was no way to guess what his heart was doing, but the Ticker’s pace had accelerated enough to flush my neck and warm my cheeks. And I didn’t need a crystal ball to guess what he was thinking: we each needed information in the other’s possession.

  With deliberate steps, he moved behind the marble-topped behemoth of a desk and reached for the intercom. Turning the side crank produced a series of hisses and clicks, then there was a muffled, “Yes, sir?”

  “Tea and brandy, please.” Marcus put a hand over t
he mouthpiece to inquire, “Are you hungry?”

  Luncheon seemed a distant memory after the excitement in the alleyway—not good for my blood sugar or the Ticker. As much as I would have liked to answer, “No, thank you, you may stuff your sandwiches somewhere most inconvenient,” I was forced to nod.

  “And a light repast,” he added into the brass bell speaker. Clicking off the device, he pulled out several files and placed them on the desk. “Do you know what these are?”

  “Lists of my many perceived shortcomings, alphabetized and arranged in descending order?” I volunteered.

  “No, Miss Farthing, they’re intelligence files. On you, your brother, your parents, and Calvin Warwick.”

  “How lovely.” The thought that someone followed me about the city and snooped in our rubbish bins should have disturbed me, but in comparison to the other revelations of the day, this was merely irritating. “I suppose, then, you know what sort of tooth powder I use and how Nic likes his trousers tailored.” The tirade was cut short by a knock at the door, indicating the swift arrival of food and drinks.

  Then Marcus had a different query for me. “Cream or sugar?”

  “Both, please. Two lumps.” Seeing an opening, I used his courtesy as an opportunity to put him on the defense. “So are you going to share the real reason you turned up at Glasshouse this morning?”

  Marcus stilled, silver tongs hovering over my cup. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Legatus, you have half the city convened at the courthouse and face the possibility of rioting in the streets when the verdict is announced, yet you thought it important to answer a call about a break-in?” Though I sounded amused, my palms had started to sweat.

  “I think you ought to let me ask the questions, Miss Farthing.” He set my tea before me with a thump.

  “You can ask.” I stripped off my gloves and selected a cheese bun from the platter. If I were to spar with him, it wouldn’t be on an empty stomach. “That doesn’t mean I will answer.”

  He circled the desk with his own cup and unnerved me by taking the chair adjacent mine. “All right, then. Your mother is working as an independent contractor for the Ferrum Viriae, and she’s in possession of some important schematics. When the break-in occurred, I wanted to make certain she was safe and then secure the blueprints.”

  I gaped at him. “My mother is working for you? How long has this been going on?”

  “Approximately six months.”

  “What’s the project?”

  “I can’t answer that question.” Marcus spoke slowly, measuring out the precise amount of information he was willing to share with me and not another word more. “There are people who want the Augmentation technology Warwick developed. Dangerous people. We intercepted dozens of underground communications over the last few months, and that number spiked this week.”

  “Is that why the city officials raised the alert level?” I asked. “You think something might happen when the verdict is read?”

  “That was my suspicion, yes. Now I think it was just a distraction. As was the explosion at the factory.” Marcus gave me another searching look as he added, “It was a bomb.”

  “A bomb?!” I sloshed tea over the lip of my cup and into the saucer. “Are you certain?”

  “The preliminary tests came back positive for accelerant. That’s the quick and dirty way of confirming it.” Far from looking discomfited, there was a warrior’s readiness about the way he sat next to me. “What else can you tell me about the break-in at Glasshouse? Perhaps something valuable was taken?” The fire had time to hiss and pop before he spoke again. “Information is my best weapon, Miss Farthing. The more informed I am, the better prepared I can be.”

  His honesty did ungodly things to me, and I found myself wanting to tell him. Dear Cogs! There was something so earnest about his face, about the way the words now poured out of him, but still I hesitated. “You have to understand . . . I’ve no reason to trust anyone right now.”

  Marcus leaned forward a bit more, starting to reach for me. At the last moment, he reconsidered and retreated. “I am the proprietor and leader of the largest, most powerful private military in Industria. I have a network of informants larger than the number of workers at your factory—”

  “None of whom can tell you what happened at Glasshouse, it would seem,” I countered softly. “So here’s the arrangement I am willing to make: if I disclose what I know, you will tell me exactly what machine my mother was working on. You’ll also give me access to your intelligence files and the messages you’ve intercepted.”

  Now it was his turn to pause. “You’re not cleared for that information.”

  I willed myself not to flush or stutter. “I guess that’s where it will come in handy, what with these being your files and your decision as to who should be able to view them. Now, do we have an agreement? My information for yours?”

  Several seconds passed. Then, instead of answering, he went behind the desk and rummaged in a drawer. Withdrawing two circular bands, he approached me, went down on one knee, and took my hand in his. His skin was work roughened, marked by combat, and the Ticker gave a curious flutter.

  “Marcus . . .” My voice trailed off when he kept his hands on mine. If there was anything to this—

  And by this I meant us—

  And the thudding of my clockwork ventriculator told me this was indeed something—

  Then we’d gone about it all wrong. So many things should have happened before bare skin met bare skin.

  The moment ended when he snapped an iron bracelet around my left wrist. Before I had a chance to process what he was doing, I wore a matching metal circlet on my other arm.

  “I hereby swear you into unenlisted service in the Ferrum Viriae,” he pronounced, the words as solemn as his gray eyes. “And I assign you the rank of Tesseraria.”

  I was startled by his use of the title; it was an old one given to the person responsible for safeguarding watchwords and delivering them to the commander on duty. A keeper and protector of classified information.

  Marcus rose, brushing nonexistent dust from the knee of his pants as he addressed me. “Now, Tesseraria Farthing, we have an agreement. And more importantly, you have clearance.”

  I looked down at my new jewelry, momentarily distracted by the way the embedded diamanté refracted the lamplight. Minutely etched white lines formed a three-dimensional image within the stone: the Ferrum Viriae crest surrounded by laurel leaves. “This has been, in all possible ways, a most curious day.” Looking up at Marcus, I felt compelled to add, “Don’t think I’m going to address you as sir.”

  “Tesseraria,” he said, lifting his cup of tea to his mouth and frowning when he found it cold, “I dared not even dream of such things.”

  SIX

  In Which Various Events Shake Our Heroine to the Foundation (Not Garments)

  Reconsidering his beverage, Marcus put down his tea and reached for the brandy. He held the cut-glass decanter up to the firelight, sending dancing flames through liquid amber. “I think I need some of this. You?”

  “Strong spirits and my implant aren’t ever a good combination, but I’ll take a lemon and Fizz if you can manage it.” Anything to calm my racing pulse, which felt like the galloping of horses through my veins. “And I’ll continue to partake of the food, if you don’t mind.”

  I’d eaten another currant bun by the time he handed me a tall glass filled with lemon concentrate and Effervescence. He followed that up with a substantial stack of papers.

  “Here are the intelligence files on your family.”

  It was a most disconcerting feeling, opening the thick uppermost folder to see my name typed alongside a copy of my passport photograph. I splayed my fingers over my own face and winced. “This is truly a terrible picture.”

  “Hardly my top concern when gathering intelligence.” Brandy snifter in hand, Marcus watched me keenly, making no pretense of his interest in my reaction.

  Under my picture, stamped ou
t in black on white, was everything anyone might want to know about me, from the names of my private tutors to the sums of money the family owed assorted creditors. Oddly enough, the Ferrum Viriae’s reconnaissance also included a list of young men who escorted me to last season’s social functions, cross-referenced by age and income, with notations of gifts that included “box of cream caramels, imported” and “bouquet of lilies of the valley tied with a pink ribbon.” An entry about my mechanical Butterfly collection was underlined, and I wondered why Marcus had thought it important. When I glanced up at him, I found him intently studying a selection of cakes. With great nonchalance, he settled on a cream slice studded with fruit before handing me the plate.

  “Take one. They’re from SugarWerks, flown in daily.”

  Fruit and cream were all well and good, but under these circumstances, only chocolate would do. I finished the first tart in two bites and selected a second before asking, “What sort of machine was my mother building for you?”

  The RiPA on his wrist fired to life. Watching his frown deepen, I swallowed just in time for him to meet my gaze.

  “The verdict is in,” he said.

  “And?” I couldn’t have swallowed again if I tried.

  “Guilty,” Marcus said with uncharacteristic gentleness. “Warwick is to hang on the morrow.”

  Every siren in the building wailed. Dropping the dessert tray, I clapped my hands over my ears.

  “What’s happening?” I shouted at him over the tidal wave of noise.

  “Get to the archway!” Marcus didn’t wait for me to move, instead catching me by the hand and towing me into an alcove.

  Crowding me into the half-circle under a monogrammed medallion, Marcus lifted one of his bracelets and waved it under a Geodesic Spectrophotometer. Pressed up against one another, we stood there for what seemed an eternity until the device recognized and acknowledged his clearance. There was a flash of bright light, a sound like a gong, and then the floor twisted underfoot one hundred and eighty degrees. Beyond a screen of copper latticework, silk-blindfold darkness blanketed the view.