She snorted and looked back to the plaque. It was old brass, set in a stone that had probably been hauled here from Veridon in secret. It was the Tomb Writ of Name. We had one too, somewhere. I hadn’t seen it in years.
“It doesn’t seem like much, does it? Just metal and words.”
“Metal, words, and power, my Lady.” I put my hand on her shoulder. “We do many things for that, Angela. We do what we must.”
She turned her head to me. “So why are you here then, Jacob Burn? Here to visit old friends?”
For a moment I wished it was true, that my visit was just social, that my invitation had come from her, rather than Valentine. I gave her the music box. She opened it, glanced over at me as the music filled the room. She set her wine down.
“Well,” she said, quietly. She placed the music box on the shelf by her head and stared at it absently. “Such a thing. Not what I was expecting. I suppose I see why they sent you.”
“Pardon?”
“Oh… it’s nothing. A bit of nostalgia. Someone is playing a bit of a trick on me.” She closed the box almost sadly, then turned to me.
“It is good to see you again, Jacob. Even in these circumstances.” She leaned casually against the plaque, her fingers brushing the ancient metal. “Even if you are on the job.”
“Good to see you, too. How are things in the Council?”
“More interesting than they’ve any right to be. You should visit more often. The Families, I mean.” She giggled quietly. “I can’t imagine you wanting to visit the Council sessions.”
“Not someplace I’d be welcomed, anyway.” I smiled. Angela and I had never been that close, but it was nice to be remembered.
“Yes, your father. And those horrid factory people, buying out so many of the Families. But I’m glad the Burns have stayed with us.”
“Well. None of my doing,” I said. She shrugged.
“Perhaps. Will you be staying the night?”
“What, here? I hadn’t known it was that sort of party.”
She laughed again, and years fell away. She suddenly looked overdressed, like a noble daughter in her mother’s finest, awkward.
“It’s not, not yet. We’ll see how things end.”
“I can’t stay. Business in the city. But perhaps some other time. It’d be good to spend some time in the country again.”
“Hm. Yes, perhaps.” She closed the music box and took up her glass of wine. “You’ll forgive me, but I have a party to attend. Um.” She paused as she crossed to the door. “Perhaps you should stay here for a bit. You know, for propriety.”
“Of course.” I drank from my glass of wine and nodded.
She left the room by the same door I had entered. I waited, listening to her tromp down the hallway. I looked again at the music box, shrugged, and drank my wine. When it sounded as though the Lady Tomb had left the immediate area, I nodded my respects to the lonely plaque, left my wine glass on a nearby shelf, and went into the hallway.
I walked quickly, anxious to make my exchange with Prescott. I was lost in thought, my mind on the strange man in the theater and trying to decide how to make the deal with Prescott discreetly so I could get the fuck off this mountain and back to Veridon, when Harold slipped silently from a side passage and began walking beside me. He was carrying something under his arm.
“Mr. Burn. Was your meeting satisfactory?”
“I suppose. I’ll be needing transport down to the city at the earliest convenience.” I wanted to get back to Emily, find out what else she might know about the deal with Prescott. “I need to be in Veridon within the hour.”
“I’m afraid that will be impossible, sir. The storm has grounded the fleet. Not even our private ships are willing to brave it, sir.”
“I’ll take a cab. I trust the roads are still open.”
“Perhaps. But other arrangements have been made, sir. The Manor Tomb has been opened for the evening. The party will be staying the night, to return to Veridon in the morning.”
“Just arrange the cab.” I turned to go, to find Prescott and make the drop. Harold put his hand on my elbow.
“I have just this moment spoken to Ms. Angela. She insisted that no one would be leaving tonight, sir. Assuming that I could get a hold of a cab at this hour, it would take most of the night for it to get here and return to the city. You will get home sooner if you stay the night and take a zepliner in the morning. With the rest of the guests, sir.”
I sighed and settled my hands into my pockets. I didn’t like it, but he was right. And it gave me more time to make the Prescott deal cleanly, without rushing. Maybe even look in on Mister Blue Eyes.
“Fair enough. Rooms are being provided?”
“Of course. As soon as the accommodations are ready, you will be shown your room. In the meantime, refreshments are being provided in the Grand Hall.”
“Swell,” I said. I tried to leave for a second time.
“One more thing, sir.” He held up the package. It was about the size of a professor’s book, wrapped in butcher’s paper and tied with twine. The paper was soaked. “This came for you, on the same zep that brought the… entertainment. I would have had it to you sooner, of course, but things have been hectic.”
I took the package. It was heavy and solid, wood or metal under the damp wrapping. My name was written in smooth ink across the front.
“Sure, no problem. You have some place I could open this with a little privacy?”
“Certainly, sir.” His eyes twitched, delighted for a little intrigue. “This way, sir.”
The room he led me to was empty except for a dusty old table and a window without drapes. Lot of empty rooms in this place. He shut the door and I set the lock before putting the package on the table.
The paper was damp, had been much wetter at some point and had time to dry. The ink of my name was a little blotted. It fit with the story, that this had arrived on the last zep up.
I cut the twine with my pocket knife and unwrapped the paper. Inside was a well-kept wooden box, with a hinge and a clasp that was made for locking but was presently unsecured. There was no note. A small steel plaque in the middle of the lid was blank. I opened the box. The interior was velvet-lined and custom built to hold a pistol. It was a Corps service revolver, intricately decorated with brass engravings. There were a dozen shells, each held individually in velvet notches beside the weapon. I picked it up and examined the chamber. Five shells were loaded, one chamber was empty. I closed the chamber. The handle felt very cold and slightly wet, as though the mechanism had been over-oiled. Across the barrel was engraved the pistol’s provenance. It read FCL GLORY OF DAY.
It was the pistol from the crash, the pistol I had used to shoot Marcus, retrieved from the river. I stared at it in dull shock, then loaded the empty chamber, pocketed the extra shells and closed the box.
Who had sent it? That guy, the one who had jumped at the last second? Was that really him, out there on the stage, dressed as an Artificer? Everyone else was dead, weren’t they? Had he seen me shoot Marcus? And what the fuck did this mean, sending me a pistol in a box?
I crossed to the window, cranked it open and squinted into the storm. The sky was tremendously loud, hammering into the room with a demon’s roar. I hurled the box and its wrapping out the window, down the cliff and away. Then I closed the window, unlocked the door and went out. I needed a towel, and a drink, and a deal. And while I was at it, I was going to have a little talk with shifty blue eyes. Maybe the pistol would come in handy after all.
I SAT AT the bar and thought about the gun, about what it might mean. Was there another survivor from the ship, part of the crew who had seen me shoot Marcus? If so, what would they care? He was responsible for the crash, he was dying from that belly wound… it didn’t make sense. And if there were other survivors, where had they recuperated, and why were they revealing themselves now, and in this manner? And how had they gotten the gun?
