processing their calling card with a rumble of suspicious clicks and clacks. No doubt cross-referencing their bona fides with the shop’s appointment book. ‘All this blasted security? Isn’t it more normal to go direct to a jeweller and leave the sourcing of one’s gem to the tradesman?’
‘Indeed, sir, indeed. Unfortunately, Lady Amanda has been very specific with her requirements. And this boutique doesn’t deal directly with jewellers. Those of quality who wish to buy must present themselves in person. It is something of an exclusive establishment.’
Their calling card accepted, the armoured portal began to vibrate as very large bolts began to slide back automatically.
‘I’m afraid the nature of the prices will serve to underline the nature of this exclusivity,’ explained the manservant. ‘And I should warn you, the proprietor is somewhat prickly. She threw out the Baroness Peery last week over some misunderstanding. A very slight matter indeed. I heard it from her chauffeur.’
‘How droll. I can see why Lady Amanda is attracted to such a place.’ Lord Donaldson sounded bored. But then, wasn’t this what having obscene amounts of family money was meant for? Smoothing out all such tiresome obstructions to his whims and humours?
Passing through the vaulted corridor, grilles and doors retracted, the pair entered a large airy sales room of polished black marble floors and solid oak display cases arranged so the glass tops caught the light from high above. Fisher nodded to staff dressed as footmen, standing sentry-still by a rectangle of Doric columns towards the room’s centre. Guards, obviously, but not dressed as such, lest the fairer sex be put into a faint by their intimidating presence. The contents of the row of cases did not shame the opulence of their surroundings — colours and shapes and cuts quite unlike anything to be glimpsed in the dozens of jewellers lining the fashionable street beyond.
‘This,’ Fisher announced, ‘is my Lord Donaldson.’
Lord Donaldson noticed a cloaked female figure emerging from behind one of the columns. ‘A rare collection, damson. We should start with your most precious gem first, so her ladyship may feel this afternoon’s work not better done with her presence, which would, I believe, be unlucky.’
‘If you place stock in such things,’ said the proprietor. ‘I am afraid my most precious gem was lost some time ago. But I am sure I have many here that will suit.’
Lord Donaldson peered in closer at the case. Some of the gems actually seemed to have been whittled as though they were ivory in a bored sailor’s hands. Tiny crabs the size of fingernails, formed as effortlessly as they had been poured from liquid diamond. ‘I must admit, I have never seen their like before. May I inquire as to their provenance?’
‘The seanore,’ said the proprietor. ‘The nomads of the underwater world.’
Lord Donaldson licked his lips appreciatively. ‘Incredible. I understood those devils would skin an air breather as soon as look at them?’
‘They do try, every now and then,’ said the proprietor, removing a tray of intricately shaped gems from under glass. ‘But a few of them hold me with a little more fondness than is usual between surface dwellers and the underwater clans. From what Mister Fisher has told me of your fiancee, something from this collection might suit?’
Lord Donaldson had to stop himself from wincing when Fisher discreetly slipped him the price list, with her ladyship’s preferences circled in appropriately red ink. Yes, he could see why Lady Amanda liked this place. His eyes settled on the establishment’s name engraved in gold leaf on the marble wall. One word, resonant of all the compressed exclusivity and mystique that surrounded this shop: Shades.
The female proprietor lightly brushed the velvet cushion holding the gems, then winked at him. ‘Don’t worry, your lordship, for a piece that will grace the hand of the fair lady who is to unite the third and fourth greatest families in the Kingdom, why, it’s a steal.’
Lord Donaldson sighed. To let his manservant lure him into this palace of licensed larceny… someone must have hypnotized him into coming along in person.
Jethro Daunt pushed his way through the dense bush as quietly as he could, disturbing the man-sized leaves far less than he was provoking the plagues of biting insects rising out of the dripping green foliage. There seemed a man’s weight of bugs waiting with every step the ex-parson took across the Concorzian colonies. Not that Boxiron was bothered. The black buzzing things could crawl across his shining steel chest without a twinge of visible discomfort from the steamman.
Climbing far faster — and stealthier — than Jethro could, Boxiron had already gained the rise. He was lying down examining the vista below with only the gentle clicking of his vision plate to indicate he was counting the spears and dart-guns ranged against the pair of them.
‘It would seem the aborigine you bribed is reliable,’ said Boxiron.
‘Quite so,’ said Jethro, unclipping the telescope from his belt and extending it out for a better look. If the informer had been untrustworthy, then their friends wouldn’t be in the clearing at the bottom of the hill, staked out against wooden posts. Daunt adjusted the telescope’s magnification. Yes, there was Molly, Coppertracks and Professor Harsh, all tied up along with the survivors among their guides. The aborigines — man-sized grasshopper things — were dancing around their prisoners, lashing their own bodies in acts of self-flagellation. Music was echoing out of the ruined city behind the Jackelians, eerie piercing notes that put Daunt in mind of sawing wood. The beat’s tempo was accelerating, no doubt quickening right up to the point when the piled wood under their friend’s feet would be torched and the feasting begin.
‘There are a lot of warriors down there, old steamer.’
‘They will not present a problem,’ said Boxiron.
No, they probably wouldn’t, even if Boxiron had been alone. Daunt could barely discern the little movements along the line of jungle that indicated Boxiron’s drones were slowly moving into position. And Daunt knew what to look for. For the aborigines, Boxiron would most likely be the first steamman they were going to see. The last too, unfortunately for many of them.
‘Ready yourself, Jethro softbody. I fight in five.’
‘I remain quite certain your upgraded body can shift its gears without my intervention.’
Boxiron said nothing. It was as though he still needed permission to be unleashed, and perhaps that was just as well. Making such judgements should remain the job of a priest, not a knight’s, even if the two of them were no longer quite the people they had once been. Daunt still had a yen for mischief and justice, and Boxiron still had a taste for mayhem. Daunt grabbed the gearstick on Boxiron’s back, and very quickly, both their tastes were fully obliged.
Dick Tull sat on the kettle-black’s worn leather seat as the carriage swayed rhythmically down Cloisterham Avenue, the street crowded with horses and omnibuses and carts laden with milk churns or mounds of black coal, shifting and settling as the crowded traffic moved and halted.
The only other passenger was a clerk who fastidiously kept a pair of calfskin gloves on at all times, even in the carriage’s warm cab. He was often in the same carriage when Dick ventured off to lunch. No doubt the dour little scribe returned home for a brief meal served by his wife, then returned to his office to serve out the remainder of his day at work. Usually the clerk had a newssheet to engage him, but a lightning printers’ strike had stopped today’s editions and so, like Dick, he leant on the handle of his cane, shaking with the carriage’s motions, jolting slightly as the boiler coughed out each belch of smoke.
‘An observation, sir, if I may?’ said the clerk.
Dick nodded. So he fancied himself an observant man, this grey little jack-an-ink?
‘You often board at the same place. A very fine neighbourhood. Yet you always disembark in the direction of an ordinary to take your luncheon. I was wondering why a fellow who carries as fine a silver cane as you would choose to eat in an establishment where its knives must be chained to its tables? Is this a new fashion for gentlemen I am unaware of?’
Dick used the cane to bang on the roof to let the driver know he was going to exit. ‘Food’s food. Why pay for five waiters’ wages when you’re eating just the same? Besides, there’s sometimes work to be picked up from the tables there, as well as a good roast.’
‘Commissions are to be had inside an ordinary?’ The clerk sounded surprised as the carriage drew to a stop. ‘Well I never. I had surmised from your hours of luncheon that you might be retired?’
Dick opened the carriage door to the cold and made to step down. ‘As much as a man’s allowed to be.’
No. The Court of the Air didn’t have much of a retirement plan, not unless you included growing old in a porcelain tower in the torpid heat of a far-off island. But then, the Court paid handsomely enough to offset such
