A Study in Silks

Jackson, exploded from the door in an officious fury. Jackson was tall and thin, with features as sharp as a weasel’s. Although his talents as an inventor were beyond doubt, he thrived in the position of favored lackey.

A flock of other hangers-on trailed after Jackson in a frantic train, somber in their unofficial uniform of dark wool and sharply pressed linen. Keating liked his people tidy, and they knew it.

Jackson pulled out his watch midstride. The case flipped open at the touch of a button, releasing a puff of steam into the air. It was a most impractical trinket. Although it was something to possess the smallest steam engine on record, the heat from the case had entirely ruined the watch pocket of Jackson’s waistcoat, discoloring the fabric and making it sag. It was only a matter of time before the silly thing melted its way clear through to Jackson’s pink flesh.

Jackson snapped it shut again, drawing himself up to greet Keating. “Good afternoon, sir. It’s a pleasure to see you, sir. The members of the Steam Council are gathering. I have your files in hand, if you’ll follow me, sir.”

The aide fell into step beside Keating, the skirts of his coat swirling behind him as he moved to pull open the guild hall door. The entourage followed, a school of hopeful remoras following the shark. Jackson’s steps were quick and eager, his gaze darting ahead to anticipate the steam baron’s every need. Keating both loved and hated the subservience, but despised Jackson. Like a dog trained to do tricks, the man performed with one eye out for possible treats.

Not like my streetkeeper. Striker waited for them on a bench in the hallway, standing only as Keating drew near. He was ambitious, prepared to break bones if Keating asked it of him, but he wasn’t interested in being liked.

“M’lord,” Striker said, touching the brim of a disreputable brown hat that perched on top of his spiky brown hair.

Keating was not a lord, but he had the sense it was all the same to Striker, a matter of indifference more than respect. The stocky thug was a blunt instrument at best, a gutter rat trained to keep Keating’s subjects in line. He wore a long overcoat, covered in bits of metal that resembled an improvised kind of armor. On the streets, where materials for fixing and building were scarce, the metal was a sign of wealth, and Striker was never seen without his portable hoard. The weight of it would have crushed a smaller man. He fell into step behind the others, the coat jangling slightly as he moved.

“What’s the betting on the Reynolds woman, Striker?” Keating asked.

“Odds are in favor of cutting her open for a look inside, m’lord.” It was long rumored that magic users had different organs than the rest of humanity. To be honest, Keating had wondered himself.

They moved as a unit down the broad corridors of the club, the soft carpet muting the sound of their feet. Once, the walls had hung with spears, scimitars, and other exotic weaponry from the Empire’s far-flung holdings, but those had been removed as a precautionary measure. Sometimes these meetings became heated. Now, portraits of shaggy highland cattle glowered moodily from the walls.

When they neared the meeting room, Keating gave the order to Striker to deploy men around the perimeter of the building. No one would be allowed to make an unauthorized exit today. It was going to be an interesting meeting.

Keating checked his pace a degree, a sense of caution cooling his mood. King Coal and a half dozen of his Blue Boys were approaching from the other end of the hall. The enormously fat man reclined in a wheeled chair powered by an engine and steered by three strong retainers. As they drew near, Keating saw the contraption shed a cinder on the carpet, leaving a burned patch of wool like droppings in its wake. King Coal, too fat to look down or turn his head, didn’t notice. A steady stream of sweat poured from the folds and mounds of the man’s pallid flesh, as if the heat of the chair’s engine were melting him like tallow.

If the Blue King was the picture of gluttony, the members of his entourage were the image of want. Striker was ragged, but nothing like the threadbare Blue Boys, their pinched faces and hollow eyes a mask of dull anger as they looked around at the club’s opulence. Perversely, those starvelings not pushing the chair carried food and drink, since the Blue King lived in horror of starvation. He slept in the room next to his kitchens and had been known to fly into a panic at the notion of a missed meal. The man was a brilliant schemer, but in other ways quite mad.

And King Coal’s boilers supplied the worst of London—the docksides and Whitechapel, the criminal dens, tenements, and stinking alleys where even the spiders starved—yet he ruled the area by choice. What does he find there to eat? Keating mused, eyeing the covered dishes the servants carried. His tenants?

They reached the conference room at the same moment. The two barons eyed each other, Keating wondering whether to assert precedence over the disgusting splot of lard or conspicuously flaunt good manners.

King Coal broke the impasse. “I think today would be the day to teach Green a lesson, don’t you agree?” The man’s voice wheezed like a punctured concertina—a high, thin death rattle incongruous with his massive size. “I want that bridge.”

Keating gave a slow shake of his head. “She will not take it quietly.”

“But you have an idea.”

Keating was not sure if he was pleased because they were thinking along the same lines, or annoyed for the exact same reason. “I have an idea. Perhaps we can strike a bargain and deliver justice at the same time.”

His counterpart harrumphed, his gaze flicking greedily around them. “Do tell.”

“Surely you know where they found the supplies for the Harter Engine Company?”

“Which you no doubt have under lock and key?”

“We don’t want them falling into the hands of the rabble. We don’t want them making their own engines, do we?”

King Coal made a wry face. “Definitely not, but I still want my cut of the proceeds.”

“Of course,” Keating said silkily.

A beat passed, in which the two men eyed each other like rival tomcats. The fat man rumbled with dark laughter, and Keating forced a smile to his lips. The tension broke with an almost audible pop.

“Then there will be tasty pickings before the day is out. I do love pickings.” King Coal gave a ghastly, brown-toothed grin as he waved at his three cadaverous servants to roll him through the wide doors to the conference room.

And a merry old soul was he. Involuntarily, Keating shuddered, waiting until the last of the Blue Boys had passed before he led his own retinue into the room.

Chapter Ten

MEMBERSHIP OF THE STEAM COUNCIL, APRIL 1888

MRS. JANE SPICER, SPICER INDUSTRIES, GREEN DISTRICT, MADAM CHAIRWOMAN

MR. JASPER KEATING, KEATING UTILITIES, GOLD DISTRICT

MR. ROBERT “KING COAL” BLOUNT, OLD BLUE GAS AND RAIL, BLUE DISTRICT

MRS. VALERIE CUTTER, CUTTER AND LAMB COMPANY, VIOLET DISTRICT

MR. WILLIAM READING, READING AND BARTELSMAN, SCARLET DISTRICT

MR. BARTHOLOMEW THANE, STAMFORD COKE COMPANY, GRAY DISTRICT

SILENCE GASWORKS, BLACK KINGDOM, REPRESENTED BY MR. FISH

A vast mahogany table filled the room. Only the members of the Steam Council sat at the table, but their assistants crowded behind them, some sitting, some standing, adding their breath to the already stuffy air.

There were no windows, but gaslit sconces ringed the walls. The only decoration was an elaborate model of an airship suspended over the council table, one of the new transcontinental models, placed there as a reminder of what collaboration between the barons could achieve. A nice theory, but Keating thought it served as a goad to competition instead. The big passenger ships were the aeronautical equivalent of a barge. Every baron wanted to be the first to build a sleek and deadly warship to rule the skies. No doubt they all had plans for experimental ships