What the hell is the fool doing?
The boy’s back was to Martin, his hands busy at the lip of the abutment, and Martin was still a few steps away when the American stepped up to the railing, turned, and leaped off the side of the Opéra. Martin saw a split second of utter shock as the boy registered his presence, then only blackness and snow where his face had been.
In the second it took for Martin to recover and spot the grappling hook and cord, the American had already made it to the top of the first tier of windows. Leaning over and shoving his coat sleeve up, Martin watched his enemy’s progress as he fumbled with his implant, trying to recall by feel exactly where the forearm panel released to reveal a blade. The boy looked up in terror, seeing his death, and whispered, “Charlotte.”
But he kept skimming down the wall.
Later Martin would blame the morphine, and perhaps the fear, for his stupidity. He was warned, after all. He had to snatch his fingers away from the icy metal once, because it was so cold it burned. Like a child, he popped one of those fingers into his mouth and sucked the end, warming it up. Then he reached down again and finally found the seam at the panel’s edge near his wrist, pressing there firmly with a surge of triumph.
The triumph lasted only until he realized he couldn’t pull the finger away. It had frozen to the metal, like a tongue to a water pump handle. In his village, as a child, the boy who would later become Jacques Martin—Coeur de Fer, the notorious Iron Heart—had never been foolish enough to take that dare.
A few seconds’ delay were all the false Paul Girard needed. Martin didn’t bother to yank his finger away from the metal, though the prospect of the blood and pain was hardly enough to deter him. He simply saw no point. The Dominion rat was already gone, escaping into the night with one last look over his shoulder.
Martin didn’t have enhanced vision, but he didn’t need it to know what the boy’s face must have looked like. Utter astonishment, incredulous relief.
That was exactly what Martin had felt when he’d first spied the pages of notes in his dead mentor’s office, and realized what they meant to him. What they could do for him. Simone’s parting gift, a piece of intelligence so valuable Martin could use it to strike a Faustian bargain.
Now they were gone, and his hope along with them.
One
UPPER NEW YORK DOMINION
(SEVEN YEARS LATER)
DEXTER HADN’T MINDED the commissions at first. A gauntlet-mounted riding rifle here, a stealthy rooftop periscope there. A dog automaton once, for a terminally ill child with allergies to the real thing.
But this . . . he looked at the leather harness in his hands, hefted the weight and swore at some length before his words regained a semblance of coherence.
“And you say he wants more rivets? Does he have any idea how much this monstrosity weighs already? The fool won’t be able to walk half a mile before he buckles under the weight.”
“Aye, sir. But the Marquis’s son claims that Lord Ravensward has one that—how did he put it—is armored with rivets like a million brass nipples, gleaming in the sun. I merely quote, sir. The imagery itself was lost on me.”
Dexter’s sigh spoke nearly as many volumes as his curses had. “If only they didn’t travel in packs. They just incite each other to greater and greater excess.”
The younger man snickered. Taking the harness back from his master, he slung it behind him and hooked his arms neatly through the shoulder straps. Then he broke into a curse of his own as the overdecorated strap continued its swing and caught his unsuspecting cheek a nasty blow.
Dexter clamped down on a grin. “Speaking of buckling, that one could probably do with some revision, Matthew. Perhaps three smaller straps, at intervals down the chest, rather than just the one? It would more evenly distribute all that weight.”
“I agree, sir. May I take it off and begin on the changes prior to mounting and testing the firearm again? My ears are still ringing from the last time.”
“My boy, as long as it’s delivered on time and operational for the toff’s house party, I really don’t care what you do with it in the meantime. I trust you to get the job done.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Matthew sauntered off, the jangling buckles and creaking straps of the fowling harness making a merry din. Dexter shook his head, still baffled at the vagaries of fashion that so complicated his business at times, before returning his attention to a more interesting project.
An air helmet. He rarely touched the production of such a commonplace item these days, but he always handled Lady Moncrieffe’s requests personally.
A monocular telescope was built into one eyepiece of the helmet, with controls that could be worked with the chin or mouth while leaving the hands free. Dexter had spent weeks of his own time on the thing, and frankly felt he had created a small masterpiece. The instrumentation was precise, the optical device providing clear views at a magnification of up to fifty times. All operable by the most subtle wags of the lady’s noble jaw or nips of her no doubt aristocratically white and even teeth.
“In blue,” her initial commission had specified. “Fleece-lined for warmth at a minimum increase to weight or drag. Overall weight must remain below fifteen hundred grams.”
He had made the device per these specifications, which had come to him as usual in the lady’s own elegant hand. It had been delivered to her just over a week ago.
That same flawless penmanship graced the note accompanying the rejected helmet when it arrived back at his workshop a few days later.
Dear Mr. Hardison,
The helmet you provided is satisfactory in its technical particulars. However, when I say it must be “blue” I mean it must be the color of a cloudless sky.
Sincerely,
Charlotte, Lady Moncrieffe
He looked at the helmet, which sat on a mesh-covered framework exactly matching the measurements of Lady Moncrieffe’s head. The helmet leather was a peacock blue that had been the first stare of fashion this season, and at the time of its crafting Dexter thought it was at least a refreshing change from last year’s craze for lilac and peony. It set off the brass nicely too. He’d heard the woman was very fair, and thought the bright blue might suit her.
But sky blue? He couldn’t recall the last time he had received a custom order for anything in such a color. Dexter wondered if it was a particular favorite of the widow Moncrieffe, and it occurred to him that he had no real idea of her coloring other than “fair,” though he knew practically every dimension of her body from the sundry devices he’d custom-built for her. Perhaps she simply looked good in sky blue.
“The color of a cloudless sky,” she had written. For her airship helmet, which she used to see things from very far away while her hands were otherwise occupied.
Perhaps your Ladyship would care to review some swatches—Dexter began, then put his pen back into its stand and crumpled the piece of notepaper. Retrieving a fresh page, he stared at it for a long moment pondering what he knew of Lady Moncrieffe.
In sum, it wasn’t much more than any member of the public might know, despite four years of correspondence with the woman over a variety of topics, sometimes only tangentially related to the commissions she’d sent him. Dexter had always enjoyed those letters, but had never gone out of his way to meet the woman who wrote them lest his fanciful picture of her be marred by a less-than-stunning reality. It was a game he played with himself, picturing the Charlotte Moncrieffe of his imagination, engaging in feats of derring-do most unbecoming a well-bred widow. From their letters he sometimes glimpsed a sly wit, a hint of cheek, and though the Charlotte in his mind had never worn a particular face, she had developed a bit of a cockeyed smile. Even, on occasion, a coquettish dimple beside rosy lips, as she swashbuckled her way through his mental landscape.