Heart of Steel - Meljean Brook [46]
“Captain Corsair!” Ivy called her name before she could touch the casing. “That’s one of the Blacksmith’s, yes? A blind-dial combination?”
“Yes.” No doubt the girl had constructed a few when she’d worked in the Blacksmith’s shop. “Why?”
Ivy crouched beside her. “They’re strong, but sometimes the dial mechanisms are knocked out of alignment if they’re hit hard. That explosion shattered your legs. A force like that might have been enough.”
Enough to change the combination? “So what do you propose?”
“I’ll open it for you.”
Unease flittered through her. “You can open my strongbox.”
Could the gan tsetseg?
The blacksmith wiggled her gray fingers. “I can touch your skin and feel your nanoagents moving. Sensing the tumblers falling into place . . .” She trailed off, as if unable to think of a comparison to anything as easy. “It’ll be safer for you.”
And Yasmeen preferred not to spend her first coins on a prosthetic hand. She gestured for Ivy to proceed. The girl did so quickly, and if Yasmeen jumped a little when the steel panel snapped closed on Ivy’s wrist, she wasn’t alone. But the mechanical flesh was unharmed, and a moment later, Ivy smiled and sat back. The top unscrewed and the belly opened.
An empty belly. No sacks of gold coins. No leather portfolio.
“Oh!” Ivy said. Her brow furrowed. “But I thought—I . . . Oh.”
“Yasmeen,” Archimedes said quietly.
Her hands shook. She reached for a cigarillo, then remembered she didn’t have any more. Her stomach formed a sick, aching knot.
I have nothing.
Not even a way to avenge her crew. Panic began to build, shortening her breath. She fought it back, fought the terror.
This was what a heart of steel was for—and she’d crawled out of nothing before.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Fox. I don’t seem to have your forgery, after all.” She rose to her feet, ignoring him when he repeated her name. “Thank you, Ivy, for all of your help. Mr. Barker? I believe I owe you a drink. I’d like to pay up now.”
While she still could.
Chapter Five
Of all the rough taverns near the docks, the Charging Bull was arguably the worst of the lot. Archimedes didn’t expect to find Yasmeen there, but after a tour through half of Port Fallow’s rum dives, he realized that was exactly where to find her. There was no counting the number of tales he’d heard about Captain Corsair in a tavern brawl, tearing through the other patrons like paper. Not so many stories lately, but the captain had been gutted by that empty strongbox. If she was looking to take out that pain on someone, there was no better place to look than the Charging Bull.
Approaching the entrance, he thought the brawl had already started. A crowd shouted encouragement inside—chanting Henri! Henri! Henri! above the noise of the musicians. A glass shattered against the floor as he walked in, followed by the crash of a chair and two swearing sailors. The scent of stale sweat and tobacco filled the air. Every table was occupied, all looking to the middle of the room, where a boy of about fourteen lay on a table with his trousers around his ankles. A woman straddled his narrow hips, her bodice down and skirt up. A crowd of aviators chanted in time with the whore’s bouncing breasts. Someone had paid to make the boy a man, apparently.
Automaton musicians dressed in French navy uniforms played a jolly tune on the harpsichord and violin. No live musician would play here; too many had been knifed through the ribs for an off-key tune or in simple drunken bad temper. Archimedes found Yasmeen sitting at a table in the back corner, watching the boy’s deflowering with a mildly amused expression. Her seat was situated in the only relatively quiet part of the tavern, given that those around her sat askew to their tables, hunched over their drinks as if they didn’t dare turn their backs on her but also weren’t going to risk looking her in the eyes.
A half-finished pint waited in front of her, a smaller glass empty beside it. Her brows lifted when she saw him, and she pushed out a chair with the toe of her boot. An invitation. More than