A Study in Silks

priests said, magic was just a different kind of energy. Like all power, it could be used for healing or harm if you knew how to harness it.

Of course, that wasn’t as simple as it sounded. Nick’s bloodline was different from anything Gran Cooper or the others had seen before, which meant their spells rarely worked for him. Of necessity, he’d gravitated to steel and horse leather, his magic as much an orphan as he was. But still, he’d been able to learn a few simple tricks— such as recognizing by the prickle along his skin that the stranger had power of his own. This was an unpredictable complication, to say the least. Nick’s stomach formed a hard knot of tension.

He found the glitter of the man’s eyes in the darkness and gave him stare for stare. The stranger didn’t flinch.

Finally, Nick shrugged as if the law was a mere annoyance at best. “True enough, sir. I’m not a front door kind of man, and that has its price.” One he was in danger of paying. Now he could hear the scuffle of running feet. He began walking backward, still not convinced he shouldn’t be running at top speed—and yet too uneasy to leave the stranger with a clear shot at his back.

As Nick moved, the man took a step forward. “You mistake my intentions.”

I’ll bet, Nick thought silently, calculating the number of yards between them. It wasn’t enough.

“I don’t care what you were doing there,” said the man, starting after him in earnest. “And I’m not particularly interested in your miniscule powers. I simply want some information.”

“About what?” A stab of protective anger ran through him. About Evelina? He wasn’t sure why, but every instinct he had said to shield her from this man.

He caught up to Nick and slapped him on the shoulder, a friendly gesture no doubt staged for the two policemen who rounded the corner at a run, puffing like overfed poodles. They’d gone around the wall instead of over it. How did they ever catch villains? Under ordinary circumstances, Nick would have been streets away by now.

Nick’s retreat had taken them to a curve of the alley that was better lit, and he finally got a good look at the man. His strong features were aquiline, his hair dark and threaded with silver. His skin was nearly as brown as Nick’s own. Definitely not of English ancestry.

The stranger lowered his voice, putting his face close to Nick’s. “How well do you know the inmates of the house? Or were you merely there to burgle the place?” He said it so matter-of-factly that it took a beat for Nick to catch up to his meaning.

“I was there to talk to a girl.” And make a fool of myself.

“Ah, good. I thought as much.”

“Why?”

“You’re young, handsome, and you aren’t carrying a sack of valuables.” The man twisted the ring around on his finger.

The constables thundered to a halt, wheezing. The one in the lead drew himself up, inflating a massive chest. “’Scuse me, sir, did you see a thief hop the wall and scarper, like?”

Nick felt weirdly invisible. His clothes alone should have given him away. He felt an irrational urge to dance a jig right under the policeman’s nose.

“No, no,” said Nick’s new companion. “Though when I entered the lane, I thought I saw someone hurry that way.” He pointed with the cane, indicating the opposite direction from where he and Nick were going. “A thief, you say? How very disturbing. I was just escorting a young lady to her rooms—imagine if I had not been there to take charge of her safety. What outrages might have occurred?”

Uncertainty crossed the big constable’s face, as if he couldn’t quite tell if he was being mocked. “Very good, sir. Much obliged.” He signaled to his smaller partner, and the two jogged off after Nick’s phantom doppelganger.

The man lowered his cane with a silent laugh.

“They didn’t even see me,” Nick said.

“I didn’t want them to.” Again, that matter-of-fact tone.

Nick’s instincts itched, telling him to get away from this fellow as soon as he could. Curiosity, however, had a siren’s pull. For starters, what sort of a young woman would this man be squiring about? Did she even exist, or had he invented her on the spot?

The man steered him toward the street, moving away from the pursuing police. “Where were we? Ah, yes. I am in need of an informant. Someone who can come and go less conspicuously than I can.”

“Why me?”

“Because when I need something, it generally falls into my lap. You very nearly made that a literal event.”

Nick mulled that over, finally placing the oily feel of the man’s energy. He gave the heavy ring the man wore a suspicious glance, remembering that his savior had been fiddling with it the moment Nick became invisible to the coppers. Sorcery used objects to focus power—far more than the practitioners of folk magic ever did—and sorcerers were quick to use that power to control other people. Between the blind police constable and falling into Mr. Opera Cape’s lap, Nick was getting a definite whiff of brimstone.

The man twirled his cane, the silver top making a lazy circle in the darkness. “An intriguing event occurred tonight. One even more fascinating than lovelorn swains dropping from the skies.”

Lovelorn swains? Nick bristled, but held his tongue.

“I was at the Royal Charlotte attending a production of The Flying Dutchman when a large mechanical creature lumbered from the wings and launched upon an orgy of destruction. I’ll grant you that Wagner engages in some fanciful devices—dwarves, bridges made of rainbows, and the like—but I don’t recall a kraken in the libretto.”

So it’s not Evie he wants? “And how does that get us to your need for an informant?” They were reaching the mouth of the lane. The street ahead glowed with a soft golden light. Instinctively, their steps slowed, as if it was important to keep the conversation in the shadows.

“I want to locate the man who built the machine,” announced the stranger. “Needless to say, executing such a feat requires an impressive level of expertise. Furthermore, the steam barons disapprove of private citizens building engines willy-nilly and have bought up most of the foundries. Materials are expensive and hard to get. So who can afford to waste so much money on an episode of mindless vandalism?”

“You already know who did it.”

The man flashed another smile. “I suspect. I’ve seen Lord Bancroft’s work, though it was years ago. He was a maker of rare distinction, and that creature would have been well within his capabilities.”

Lord Bancroft? Nick couldn’t imagine the stuffy ambassador getting his hands dirty. “But why would a lord do such a thing?”

“When I knew Bancroft as Her Majesty’s ambassador to Austria, the heart of a rebel beat beneath his watch chain and waistcoat. However, you’re right, there is no immediate logic that fits. I saw my old friend tonight, and though we did not speak, I could see that he was not pleased by the chaos.”

“Then why assume he did this?”

The man gave Nick a look that said he asked too many questions. “Because what I saw was too like Bancroft’s handiwork to ignore the possible connection. That is where my informant comes in. There is no workshop in Hilliard House, so does one exist elsewhere? If Bancroft is not personally flouting the will of the steam barons, then is it someone close to him? A hireling? A student? A peer, as I once was? Makers gossip together like fishwives in the market. If he is not the author of the creature, he may well know who was, even if he despises what he saw tonight.”

“Is that all you want to know?”

“Is that all?” The man laughed. “It is the cornerstone to a vital foundation. Find out if Bancroft or one of his intimates has a workshop. If he does, tell me what he creates there. I will reward you well for that information.”

Nick wavered for only a second. What the hell. He’d be in town for a little while longer. As the saying went, there was a sucker born every minute—and, truth be told, he knew accepting the task was far wiser than refusing a sorcerer. “Give me good silver, and I’ll find out everything I can.”

The stranger’s words turned silky. “Excellent. You may call me Dr. Magnus.”