She already knew how to do that, but wasn't about to put that kind of advantage into the Gold King's hands. "He may wait for a long time. That secret's been lost for centuries, and if they never teach me anything here, it will be lost a while longer."

"He'll grow impatient. He wants the technology for his airships."

He wanted a ship of wonders, like the Red Jack had been. Evelina wondered what had become of Nick's air spirit. "Breakthroughs of that nature don't come on command."

"I know." Tobias swallowed, as if choking back words he couldn't afford to say. His eyes met hers, gray and bleak. "I know and I'm sorry, Evelina. I wish there was something I could do."

"I didn't ask you to do anything," she said softly. "You've too much at stake in this." He was every bit as trapped as she was. "Perhaps you should go," she added softly.

He looked away, misery plain on his handsome features. "Keating has another a.s.signment for you."

She closed her eyes, fear rising like an evil mist. The last a.s.signment had left her bleeding to death in a Whitechapel alley. "What does he want?"

"You're to investigate an amateur parapsychological society."

"Amateurs?" Evelina's eyes snapped open. "Are you quite serious?"

Tobias looked apologetic. "A seance, to be more precise."

"Table rapping?" Her brow furrowed, not sure whether to be alarmed or insulted.

"You sound chagrined." A hint of amus.e.m.e.nt lurked in the corners of his mouth, making him look almost himself.

"I feel a bit like a thoroughbred asked to pull a pony cart."

"Sadly, that's the a.s.signment."

"Will it get me out of the college? Bracelets notwithstanding?"

"I'll make sure of it."

"Then I am utterly at your disposal."

"I'm glad to hear it." Tobias dug in a pocket, pulling out a leather notebook that had worn through on the corners. It would be the one he used for his work, and it gave her an odd feeling to think her business was mixed in there. He flipped it open to a dog-eared page. "They're called the Parapsychological Inst.i.tute. It's quite fashionable at the moment."

Now Evelina was curious. "If they're a bunch of dabblers, why does Keating care? They can't possess actual magic. Table rapping is all wires and hidden springs."

"Keating believes it's a cover for rebel sympathizers, and your uncle Sherlock confirmed it. You know, Baskervilles hiding under the bed."

Uncle Sherlock? "Are you certain?" Her uncle's involvement complicated everything.

Tobias shrugged, his expression haunted. Whatever was going on, he was caught in the middle. "The word is that the society is hiding Madam Thala.s.sa. Keating wants to find her. He thinks it's time for an arrest and execution on either political or paranormal grounds. He doesn't much care which."

Evelina's jaw dropped. "And you want me to find out if she's actually there?" What about Imogen?

"I'm informing you of what Keating wants." And Tobias's expression told her precisely what the Gold King had in mind. "You can get close to these people in a way others can't."

Evelina lost the power of speech. You mean I can win their confidence and betray them. Her heart was in her throat. No b.l.o.o.d.y way!

And she saw the jaws of Keating's trap close. She had no choice but to become Tobias's enemy.

SOMEWHERE IN ENGLAND.

September 26, 1889.

MANUFACTORY THREE.

11:05 a.m. Thursday.

NICK'S LIPS CRACKED IN THE HEAT, SORE AND SWOLLEN with thirst and unspent curses. A kerchief tied over his face, he sweated in the scorching murk, one more shackled prisoner laboring among hundreds. He was used to hiding, to seeking anonymity, but this was oblivion. Ash veiled the air in a false dusk, motes swirling like souls lost in the updrafts of h.e.l.l. On every side flames roared, the furnaces like hungry devils demanding fuel for their red-hot bellies. For the prisoners shoveling c.o.ke and pig iron, those furnaces might as well have been sucking down their souls.

There were bigger and better steel plants in the Scarlet King's territories, some with machines that did the work of dozens. Here, though, in the place Nick only knew as Manufactory Three, mortal labor was cheaper than any machine. Incarceration was a death sentence-eventually. The heat alone killed many of the men, sweating them day after day until their bodies gave in.

Ironic that Nick found his way into this fire pit right after surviving a fall from his flaming airship. He had gone overboard locked in a death struggle with a sorcerer, their fight over the metal cube that housed the air spirit named Athena. Without a parachute, Nick should have been smashed to pulp, but Athena had used her power over the winds to cushion the fall.

But that had just been the start of their troubles. He'd known they were vulnerable once they'd reached the earth, and the moment he'd heard the soldiers coming, he'd hastily buried the metal cube, even though Athena loathed being in the earth. Just in time, too, because the soldiers had taken him prisoner and Athena would no doubt have gone for sc.r.a.p. Beneath the stranglehold of the steam barons, any kind of metal had value. The only good thing was that his captors had arrested him simply as a vagrant. They had no idea that he was the fearsome Captain Niccolo, or things would have gone much worse. At least he wasn't trapped in a cell. Unfortunately, bound with iron chains and surrounded by every kind of metal, his air magic failed him utterly. He was as helpless as Athena trapped beneath the dirt. The only strength he had was in his bones and brawn.

In fact, his job that day was to move the raw materials from the mountainous supply in the yard to a giant clay-lined vessel suspended between two huge legs. The smelter consumed its meals faster than Nick and the other prisoners could feed it-fifteen tons at a load. Sometimes they hauled bars of the pig iron made from ore and sc.r.a.p. Steam-powered trolleys moved enormous bins of the stuff right up to the furnace, where men shoveled fuel like imps serving their demon G.o.d. But the bins had to be filled, and that was done with muscle and sweat-a job that broke bones and spirits as swiftly as a fire ate kindling. The one boon of the job was that the yard was a few degrees cooler than the furnace shed, and on the days he loaded iron, Nick got to see the open sky.

Today a heap of sc.r.a.p sat in the yard-carriage wheels and railway ties, old generators and coal grates. Some was the detritus from industry, some the remains from domestic use. Nick even saw a tiny wagon made of tin-a child's toy painted in bright colors. His crew had been a.s.signed the task of throwing the sc.r.a.p into the bins to be melted down.

It was a job they did at least once a week. Whether one was in the city or a country village, metal was hard to come by-and these furnaces were the reason. Old materials could make new machines, and so the steam barons' men scoured town and hamlet for anything they could take. After all, there was no profit in the townsfolk building something for themselves.

Nick bent, picked up an old wheel, and heaved it into the bin, his sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his skin. They had given him gloves, but those had quickly worn through, and he could feel flakes of rust clinging to his fingertips like b.l.o.o.d.y sand. Next, he grabbed a cast iron pot just like the one Gran Cooper-the fortune-teller who had all but raised him-used to hang over the fire for soups and stews. He slung it over the side of the bin and heard it fall with a hollow crash. The men never talked as they worked, the roar of the machines around them making conversation impossible.

Even after work stopped for the day, they had little to say. Half the men there were deaf, blind, or struggling to pull air into their scorched lungs. Anger here was a dull thing, crushing resentment more than a lancing fury. Fury took strength, and theirs was all spent under whip and short rations.

Nick found an old coffee mill, the paint chipped away from its iron sides. This he lifted more slowly, using his legs because it was heavy and awkward to hold-and even so, he could barely shift it. He didn't notice the guard speaking until the man rammed the b.u.t.t of his rifle into his shoulder. The wheel barked his shin as he lurched forward, catching himself just in time to keep from falling against the waist-high rim of the bin. He dropped the corner of the mill, barely missing his foot. Anger flared as he turned, hands closing into fists, but he banked his temper at once, self-preservation smothering his reaction. The guards at Manufactory Three never hesitated to put those rifles to use.

Keeler, the man standing next to Nick, wasn't as quick. He slammed into the bin, his feet leaving the ground as momentum took him over the edge. Nick grabbed the back of the man's sweaty shirt and hauled him to safety. Keeler landed with a grunt and shuffled around to face the guard, not even acknowledging Nick's help. A dull, mute acceptance drained the expression from Keeler's eyes, like a horse beaten too often to fight the bit. Nick understood all too well-Keeler had begun to spit up blood at night. He wouldn't see another springtime.

Another guard joined the first, and Keeler, Nick, and another prisoner were shackled, one linked to the next. The iron chains rattled, a counterpoint to the clank and rattle of the sc.r.a.p in the bins.

"This way," the guard said sullenly, prodding three of them toward the furnace.

There was no explanation, and that was worrisome. "What's going on?" Nick asked, but all he got was a rap to the head with the rifle barrel.

So Nick followed, shackles clanking, glad of the chance to rest his aching back and shoulders. Though he'd been fit and healthy when he'd arrived, nine months of hard labor had pushed his body to its limits. He could feel every joint as he moved.

A steam whistle sounded as they walked toward the furnace, signifying that a batch of steel was ready to pour. The bulbous vessel swiveled on its enormous legs and vomited a shimmering river of molten steel. It had a strange if terrible beauty, like the birth of dragons. Even from where Nick stood many yards away, a hot wind found him, stinging against his skin and driving the moisture from his eyes and nose.

But not even the h.e.l.lish winds slowed the guards. They turned the prisoners to the right, leading them along a path that ran to the outside of the shed, past the place where they lined up for rations of bread and stew and past the infirmary that was little more than a quiet place to die.

Their journey finished at a low building of brown, sooty brick. Now Nick could see something unusual was afoot. More guards stood at attention outside. A fleet of Steamers sat on the pavement outside the building, drivers polishing the steam-powered vehicles from steering wheel to the upright exhaust pipe that reminded Nick of a squirrel's tail. Every one gleamed with gold accents and lush velvet seats. The place had visitors, and they were wealthy. Now very curious, Nick allowed himself to be herded inside.

Beyond a small reception area was the domain of Commander Rose, despot of the prison factory. He was one of the Scarlet King's right-hand men and as such an important figure in the Empire.

As the prisoners shuffled into the room, more guards joined them, forming a tight wedge. Nick was in the middle, behind Keeler, and he strained to see past the man's shoulder to catch a glimpse of what awaited them. Nick's gaze found Rose at once. The man was tall and spare, distinguished without ever having laid claim to good looks. He wore the uniform of the Scarlet King's men-a quasi-military jacket with a red waistcoat beneath.

As they came in, Rose sat down at a long mahogany table, inviting his guests to join him. Soon, a half dozen men flanked him, all facing the prisoners. With a pang, Nick saw that several wore the crisp uniform of the Merchant Brotherhood of the Air, dress swords rattling as they shifted on the leather-covered seats. He imagined the clean, crisp wind clinging to the airmen's hair and clothes and ached for it.

The three prisoners were brought to a halt, the muzzle of a rifle to each of their heads. Nick stood, feet braced a little apart. Keeler slumped to one side; a bearlike man named Ambling loomed on the other. In the clean white room with its shining bra.s.s lamps and scrubbed wooden floor, the prisoners seemed a species apart, a smelly offshoot of the human race due to be extinguished as a bad job best forgotten.

Rose looked from one of them to the other, a thin, disapproving crease forming between his brows. Then he turned to address his guards. "Is this the best you could do?"

"These were doing shoveling, sir," replied the one who had fetched Nick. "Strong 'uns."

"Nimble?" Rose looked doubtfully at Ambling. "I need someone who can climb. Someone who won't matter if he falls."

The guard helpfully pointed to Nick.

"Whatever it is, I'll do it," Keeler broke in. "It truly doesn't matter if I fall."

But no one paid him any heed. Prisoners were regarded as no more than the insubstantial dead.

"Why is he here?" Rose pointed to Ambling.

"Public drunkard," the guard replied.

"And him?" Rose pointed at Keeler.

"Second-story man." That meant he was a thief who specialized in sneaking in my lady's window to pilfer her jewels.

"And him?" Rose pointed to Nick.

"A vagrant. Probably a thief, too. Found wandering the road with no excuse for being there."

As usual, Nick held his tongue, since piracy and magic were both guaranteed to see a man swing. And since Dr. Magnus-he of the sorcery and all-black wardrobe-had broken free of their midair death struggle and was now a grease spot south of London, there was no one to give Nick away.

"A second-story man would have the best chance at this," Rose decided. "But keep the vagrant here as backup. The drunkard can go."

Ambling was led away, back to the sc.r.a.p heap. Nick and Keeler stayed put.

Rose steepled his fingers. "I'm prepared to grant clemency to the man who successfully completes this mission."

Nick and Keeler shared a glance. Nick noticed he didn't say "freedom," and "clemency" was too vague for his liking. Still, he listened.

"We require someone to a.s.sist in the retrieval of a rather valuable piece of equipment."

"Where is it?" Keeler asked.

This time Rose acknowledged him. "The Church of St. Margaret and St. Anne."

Nick had been brought to Manufactory Three, along with a few dozen other prisoners, in the windowless boxcar of a train. He wasn't sure where in England he was, but the name of the church was vaguely familiar. However, as he'd grown up in a circus that traveled all over the country, that didn't mean much.

Rose went on. "The equipment was part of a personal flight device that these gentlemen came to demonstrate today. Unfortunately, the church got in the way."

"It crashed," said one of the merchant airmen flatly. "There is no point in mincing words. It crashed and what we need is on the steeple. Someone has to go up and get it, but there are too many obstructions on the roof to reach it safely from the air."

"How heavy is the equipment?" Nick asked. That would make a difference.

The airman gave a quick, approving nod. "Barely a pound. It's part of the pilot's harness. It will have to be cut free."

"Captain, we can't give a prisoner a knife," Rose snapped.

The airman snorted. "We will unless we want him to chew through the strapping."

"Is the pilot alive?" Keeler wanted to know.

"That depends on what happened with the propeller," the captain replied. "We can't tell. The roofline is too irregular."

Rose chopped the air with one hand. "The equipment is the priority. The Scarlet King does not wish his maker's work to fall into enemy hands. There is a war on, you know."

Nick and Keeler exchanged a startled glance. It was the first either of them had heard of it. What side are these men on? Nick wondered. The Scarlet King's, obviously, but what did that mean? That was the difficulty with politics in the Empire-there were too many choices for an obvious answer. And that led to an equally interesting question.

Who is the enemy?

THE WINDOWS UPSTAIRS GAVE A VIEW OF THE DISTANT church. The airmen argued for Nick's presence as they all trooped up the stairs to watch Keeler's progress. Accordingly, Nick climbed the steps, the heavy chains around wrist and ankle clanking loudly in the stairwell. Guards marched before and behind, muttering that there was more valuable work to do. Nevertheless, Rose agreed with the airmen. If Keeler failed, the next man up would need to know where the first had gone wrong. It was good logic, but it would have been better if Nick had not lost his spygla.s.s in the wreck of the Red Jack. It was hard to see much at this distance beyond the building itself.

The Church of St. Margaret and St. Anne was an unusual design-at least as far as Nick had seen. The roof was in two parts. The front had the usual tall steeple, and the back of the building was a long rectangle with a steep peak and the usual b.u.t.tresses, gargoyles, and other medieval fancy. But someone along the way had liked the first steeple so much they'd added more points. They weren't true spires, but were tall, slender points needling into the clouds. One sat at each corner of the rectangle and halfway down the long side, creating a cl.u.s.ter of obstacles that meant the roof was impossible to access from the air.

A Steamer eventually appeared near the church and men piled out, Keeler still in chains. The clutch of men disappeared inside the building, presumably to use the stairs to access the roof. Twenty minutes later, Keeler was a small black dot inching up the side of a steeple toward a patch of something Nick couldn't make out. He squinted, irritated by the fact that he couldn't quite see what Keeler was doing. Plus, the tickle of a rifle muzzle caressing his ear was more than tiresome. Backbreaking labor was preferable to the constant tease of a quick death. But then again, no one was asking Nick's opinion.

The room where they stood wasn't much to look at-empty except for oak cabinets containing the paper records for Manufactory Three. There was enough room to stand by the row of windows, the workings of the plant strewn several stories below. Nick had never seen this view of the place and studied the layout carefully, keeping his features a blank. His pulse quickened as he noticed the slash of turned earth on the west side, where a new building was going up. The fence was down there, but extra watchtowers had been raised. Was that an opportunity for escape?

And then he heard a collective intake of breath. His gaze slid back to the dot on the rooftop, his own chest wrenching tight. The dot was moving downward with excruciating slowness. Nick shifted slightly, wanting a better angle, and felt the rifle jab him in the neck.

"Stand still," the guard ordered.

Nick clenched his teeth, swatting his own anger aside. Keeler had got himself in trouble trying to reach something that had wedged between the slope of the roof and the base of the southeast tower. Keeler was approaching the join of roof and tower from below, but the angle was too steep and he kept sliding down. After every attempt, he would dangle precariously over the sheer drop to the paving stones below, kicking until he found the strength to pull himself up. Keeler was sick and couldn't keep that up for long. Ignoring the guard, Nick leaned forward, as if a few inches would make a difference to his ability to see.

"He should have gone down from the ridge," Nick muttered. "He could have used a rope." But then Keeler was a second-story man, used to nipping up drainpipes and trellises to pry open house windows. Dark Mother protect him!

"You've some experience with heights?" the airman standing near him asked. They were all subdued, and Nick guessed why. That was their friend who had crashed on the church roof. "Not everyone can stand being near a high balcony, to say nothing of being up there with the birds."

Nick's vision fuzzed with memory, blocking Keeler from sight. Nick had grown up as part of Ploughman's Paramount Circus, ropewalking almost as soon as he learned to run. "I have some. Not as much as you, I'm sure." That was a lie, but Nick preferred to be careful.

The man met Nick's eyes, ignoring the shackles. "Ever been on a flying ship?"

Nick choked on a sudden longing for open air, for the feel of a cloud kissing his skin. That was where his magic lived, the very stuff that called his Blood. His answer came out clipped, almost hostile. "Yes, but it seems a long time ago now."

The rifle poked him again, and Nick's fist clenched. The chains clanked, the cold metal speaking his anger. And then someone cried out. Nick's attention was instantly back on the spire. He sprang toward the window, stumbling in the chains. He grabbed the window frame to break his fall, but it wasn't his own fall that he cared about. "d.a.m.n it to h.e.l.l!"