Heart of Steel - Meljean Brook [14]
Zenobia glanced at Mattson’s body. “A man has been killed in my house, and I suppose I must explain it. Will you come with me to speak with the magistrate? This time of morning, he’s always at the Rose & Thorn taking his breakfast. You can give him your account and I’ll buy drinks for your crew afterward.”
And let word spread that Yasmeen had run to the authorities after Miracle Mattson had threatened her? That she’d answered to a magistrate? Not a chance.
“He’ll believe that I shot Mattson without my word on it,” she told Zenobia. “But if you like, I’ll have the actress taken to him. She’s on my lady now, and we can fly her wherever you wish—whether to the Rose & Thorn or to a mob of zombies in Paris.”
Zenobia smiled. “The magistrate will do, thank you. May I come with you? For research.”
Yasmeen didn’t care. She nodded, then waited outside while the other woman retrieved her coat. The frigid air shivered through her. Lighting a cigarillo, she let the smoke warm her lungs and ease the tiny shakes.
A few neighbors had ventured outside, gaping up at Lady Corsair . When Zenobia finally emerged, she waved to them and called a good morning, and Yasmeen couldn’t decide whether surprise or relief added such volume to the “Good morning!”s they called to her in return. Feeling the cold down to her toes, she started for the rope ladder.
“Captain Corsair?” When Yasmeen turned, Zenobia avoided her gaze. She seemed to find the act of pulling on her gloves either fascinating, or extraordinarily difficult. “I thought we might walk rather than fly.”
“I thought you might want to have a look at my lady. For authenticity.” And because the boilers kept the cabins heated and the deck beneath her feet warm.
“I’ve seen her.” She shot a glance upward. “When she was my father’s.”
Damn it. Yasmeen wouldn’t ask what had happened. She’d seen enough of Emmerich Gunther-Baptiste’s cruelties to guess.
“We walk, then.”
She signaled for Rousseau to follow overhead, then started for the taverns along the bay. Zenobia’s boot soles clipped across the cobblestones as she matched Yasmeen’s long stride. So loud. Yasmeen’s soft leather boots weren’t as warm, but at least they were quiet—and didn’t announce her approach from hundreds of yards away.
“I can’t remember if I’ve thanked you for saving us.” Zenobia’s cheeks had already flushed with cold. “That was quite the crack shot. I never saw you draw your weapon or aim.”
That was the point. “If Mattson had seen it, you’d be dead.”
“Are you infected, then? I have heard the bugs make a person stronger and quicker.”
Infected with Horde nanoagents, the millions of tiny machines that lived in her body like industrious little ants. Though Yasmeen’s nanoagents weren’t exactly like the two strains Zenobia was probably familiar with—the “bugs” used by the Horde to control large populations, or the ones that infected the zombies—Yasmeen didn’t bother to explain the difference. The woman had only asked if they’d made her fast and strong—and they had.
“Yes,” she said.
“Mattson must not have been, then.”
Oh, he had been. His bruises had always healed too quickly after each tavern brawl for him to have been anything but infected. But Yasmeen only nodded. “He was slower,” she said.
“Are you originally from one of the occupied territories, then?” Zenobia asked. “Or did you take a blood transfusion and infect yourself later?”
“Is this a search for a crumb?”
“For your background? Yes.”
“Surely you’ve already picked up a few.”
“Yes, but they tell me little. Your accent, for instance. Perhaps you were born in the occupied territories of northern Africa or farther east. Perhaps you came from one of the tribes who fled to the southern American continent when the Horde moved across the Arabian Peninsula.”
Only her accent was of note? Was Zenobia trying to be delicate? Or, considering the woman’s hatred toward her father, perhaps