“Serve you?” Jordan hissed. She stood and slinked back from the group, watching the Wardens and Wraiths who clung to the walls with a cool detachment. “Serve you. Who are you to wake them from their slumber and enslave them for your own desires? Who are you to make slaves of abolitionists?”
The Wandering Wallace shook his head. “They will not be slaves, they will be empowered. And when we have succeeded they will be allowed to continue their rest or I will set them free. To do whatever it is that spirits do if not encapsulated in crystal.”
“And how will you do that?” Jordan asked.
The boy continued to sort and sift the stones, muttering to himself in his strange, new voice as he worked.
The Wraiths shifted along the walls, watching as intently as the Wardens listened.
The Wandering Wallace lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I will crack open each gem and release the power within. Let loose the soul. If that is what that soul desires.”
“You promise you will give them all that choice?”
“Yes. I promise,” he said with a heavy sigh. “I do not condone enslavement of any sort, Jordan. I am allowing them the opportunity to have a final say. I am giving them a chance they might have wanted but could not take when they were flesh and bone. Would you not want a chance like that if your life was cut short? A chance to say your piece—or act it out—before final freedom?”
She looked away, her gaze pinned to a small dent in the wall as she wrung her hands, distressed.
“Jordan, I am giving them a great opportunity and new bodies. Some will request freedom, some will know I’ve given it to them,” the Wandering Wallace said.
“New bodies … ?”
Rowen stood now, reaching for her.
She pulled away. “You are a Reanimator—that was why you thought you could help Anil’s dead son.”
“Yes.”
“Are those the sorts of bodies you intend to use? The bodies of the dead?”
The Wandering Wallace kept his eyes on the boy, ignoring the drama on the rise behind him. But his shoulders slumped. “No, Jordan. I will not use the bodies of the recently dead for these stones,” he said.
“Or the bodies of the long dead,” she whispered, her voice thinning.
“No. Of course not. I have another set of bodies altogether. Mechanical bodies.”
Meggie turned on his lap and grabbed the peacock’s beak. “Mechanical bodies? Where?”
His body language changed immediately. “Shall I show you, little fawn?”
Meggie glanced to her father, “May I see them, Papa, may I?”
“If we all may,” Bran said, his eyes narrowing the slightest bit.
“Of course,” the Wandering Wallace said. “As soon as we finish here I will show you something amazing. Something that will change the destiny of this entire country—with a little help from my friends …” he whispered, pressing the peacock’s beak into Meggie’s giggling face, feathers bobbing. He focused on the boy again. “Lawrence, can you play hide-and-seek a little more quickly, perhaps?”
Evie nodded and caught the boy’s attention again. “Lawrence, this time you will seek a group of stories. Stories of Weather Witches or the families of Weather Witches—people who love the Witches. Are you ready?”
“How do you know so much about this?” Jordan asked her.
Rowen jumped in, allowing Evie to continue working with the boy, helping him fall back into his strange trance and separate the stones into the ones that would aid their cause and ones that would not. He whispered, “In Bangor we met another Reader. An old woman who seemed to know her from before. I can only guess she picked up a few tricks.”
Jordan snorted. “I am certain she knows quite a few tricks,” she said with a derisive snort.
Rowen’s eyes widened at her insinuation.
“I heard that,” Evie snapped. She looked at the Wandering Wallace. “We will make short work of this now,” she promised. “Perhaps you should send someone to help gather their belongings and find them a nice new cabin?”
The Wandering Wallace nodded. “Might you loan one of the gentlemen the keys?” he asked Jordan. There was a clink of metal in answer and Jordan handed the keys to Marion. Considering her options, she felt he was most appropriate.
She would limit Bran’s control as much as possible for as long as possible, but she was beginning to believe she should consider taking the same attitude when it came to the Wandering Wallace.
Marion took the keys with all the seriousness she expected. “Your cabin’s number?” he asked the grandmother. His voice was gruff but gentle. The fact he spoke so little only gave his every word more weight, more value.
The grandmother answered, and it was not long before Marion was on his way to gather up their things and search out a new location. As promised.
The rest of the group lingered in the cabin while the boy Read the final gemstones and helped select the membership souls destined to serve in the Wandering Wallace’s army.
Chapter Seven
Any coward can fight a battle when he’s sure of winning.
—George Eliot (Marian Evans Cross)
Aboard the Tempest
As the group of them walked across the swaying rope and wood gangplank joining the two airships high above the ground, the Wandering Wallace said, “The bodies you are about to see put to shame the automatons that the Philadelphia Council have as guards. Whereas they have heavy ceramic shells to protect their inner workings, we have steel.”
But his words lost Jordan when she saw the woman moving back and forth near the Tempest’s ship’s wheel—the woman lashed to her post …
A hand dropped on her shoulder and she jumped. “Sorry,” Rowen whispered. “I was merely going to say that she is the way the Tempest goes unnoticed as a steam vessel. Thanks to that puppet—”
“Puppet,” Jordan sighed, squinting.
“—Tara,” Evie inserted.
“—Tara,” Rowen repeated. “Thanks to her there is no enslavement here and no reason for the government to suspect anything strange is up unless they board.”
“And we pay our docking fees and all our taxes,” Evie gloated, “and pass an inspection whenever required.”
Both her eyebrows high on her forehead, Jordan conceded, “Impressive.”
Caleb simply smiled a grin that he seemed to be becoming more and more comfortable wearing around the group of them.
The Wandering Wallace paused by a large tube extending about a foot above the deck of the Tempest and fitted with a large domed cap. “Shall we make our descent?”
Evie laughed and popped open the heavy cap to reveal a broad tunnel with a ladder running down its interior.
Jordan leaned toward it and corrected her previous thought.
… a ladder running down part of its interior.
Jordan felt eyes on her. Yes, Rowen’s—they never left, gauging her reaction to nearly everything. But added to that relentless gaze was Evie’s, challenge glinting in her eyes. She demonstrated as she explained. “We step in, onto the last rung, count to”—she looked at the gathered assembly and simply explained the rest—”ten, step off, and slide to the bottom.”
Jordan nodded. “Easy enough,” she said, though her stomach climbed a bit higher in her gut at the thought. If the descent was not far, it was no problem. But the way Evie grinned Jordan was relatively certain the descent was a good distance. “You first.”
Evie grinned. “Last one closes the hatch.”
“Agreed,” Jordan said with a shrug she hoped looked casual.
With that, Evie winked at Jack and disappeared into the tube’s dark mouth.
Jack went next and so on until only Rowen and Jordan remained Topside.
“I’ll come last and make sure the hatch is secured,” Jordan said, waving to the tube.
“And I’ll be at the bottom waiting to catch you.”
A smile twitched to life at the edges of her lips. “If my imagination is in any way a
ccurate,” she whispered, “I would launch into you and knock us both to the ground.”
He pressed his lips together and nodded. “True enough,” he agreed. “But I would make the attempt nonetheless.”
She shook her head, trying to fight down the blush burning at her ears.
“Perhaps it is best if I go first and nobly step aside so my presence does not suddenly impede your progress.” He looked so very grave a giggle betrayed her.
“That would be quite noble of you,” she whispered.
He grinned. “I have missed that sound,” he said, his voice going low and rumbling like the muffled thunder.
More than her ears heated at the sound, and she battled the feeling, fought her fear, hearing something more than simple fun in his tone. Her tone changed as well and, with clipped words she said, “I expect they are waiting for us.”
He nodded and, stepping into the tube, gave her a solemn look. “I will see you laughing again,” he promised. Then the darkness of the waiting tunnel swallowed him up.
Looking back at the puppet who appeared to Conduct the Tempest, Jordan muttered, “We might as well be one and the same, Tara,” before she stepped onto the ladder and closed the hatch above her.
She jumped without hesitation.
Her hair blasted back from her face and her skirts blew up and she flew down the ship’s dark throat. She smacked her skirts back down, pinning the fabric between her knees and her breath pounded out of her as she hit something soft.
Jordan opened her eyes to bright light and the sound of Evie’s laughter. “Not even she screamed,” Evie laughed, pointing at her.
Rowen crossed his arms over his chest while Jordan recovered her wits and sat up on the awkward stack of straw-tick mattresses.
“You screamed?” Jordan asked, a smile lighting her face again.
Rowen refused to answer, but stopped pouting long enough to reach a hand out and help her to her feet.
“Follow us,” Evie instructed, leading them to a door in the room’s floor.
“Another slide?” Meggie asked with an excited peep.
Evie laughed. “No, m’dear. Merely stairs this time.”
Down they went, into the ship’s hold.
The broad expanse was filled with wooden crates, most of them approximately the same size.
The Wandering Wallace stood at the foot of the stairs and swept his arms wide. “My army!”
“Our army,” Jordan corrected.
The peacock nodded slowly and turned his attention to Evie and Jack who, Jordan noticed, seemed more and more frequently to act as one. The Wandering Wallace motioned them all to join him.
Jack reached into his collar and withdrew a key on a chain he wore.
Jordan’s vision tilted and she balked, turning aside, remembering clearly the last time she had seen a man pull a key out of his shirt—
—when she was being kept by the captain.
Abused by the captain.
Her stomach quivered and she reached a hand out to steady herself. Thunder clapped close to the window and everyone jumped. Closing her eyes and catching her breath, she focused on steadying her breathing. She opened her eyes again to find everyone staring at her. Her mouth moved wordlessly, and she yanked her hand back, realizing the stability and strength she’d reached for—and found: Rowen’s arm.
Nearly ever-present, Caleb leaned in and slipped an arm around her shoulders. Jordan slouched against him, her knees soft. Rowen took a half-step away, head hanging.
A pang of guilt rushed through her, but …
… it wasn’t like she could act differently. She couldn’t help the way she felt.
Everyone moved away from Jordan and Caleb, drawing near the open box.
There were gasps and murmurs, and Jordan steeled herself, peeling away from Caleb, curiosity winning out over the nausea of her past.
Inside the box was, indeed, a mechanical man. Or woman, Jordan surmised, noticing there was nothing giving any clue to the contraption’s gender. As a matter of fact, beyond that it had a discernible head, two legs, two arms, and a body segmented by a somewhat narrower waist, there was very little that marked it as human.
It was far simpler than the statues in any museum she had visited and nowhere near as ornate as the statuary found in some churches. In the center of its chest was a small hole, a socket the right size for a stormcell. It was this which held the group’s attention.
The Wandering Wallace suddenly reached behind Meggie’s ear, exclaiming, “Do look and see what I have found.” He held a glinting green Herkimer diamond between his finger and thumb. “You had better begin scrubbing better behind those ears of yours or you’ll sprout potatoes!”
Giggling, Meggie watched the Wandering Wallace carefully place the gem in the small hole.
The mech began to hum softly. With a gurgle and a whine it rearranged itself inside the box so it kneeled, facing them. Then it swung a leg up and over the box’s edge and pulled itself out and stood. It promptly fell over, sprawling on the floor.
Jordan pursed her lips, then said, “So, rather than Philadelphia … where shall we go?” She clapped her hands and blew out a breath. “I suppose it should be a place we can release our prisoners …”
The Wandering Wallace thrust out a hand, silencing her.
She crossed her arms.
The mech scrabbled on the floor a moment, gears whirring as it struggled to get to its hands and knees.
The Wandering Wallace crouched before it and stretched his hand out, saying, “Welcome back to life, Lady Margo Penhurst.”
The mech turned its face toward the Wandering Wallace. Its body shuddered, but it clutched his hand, and, after a long minute it repositioned its feet. It stood.
She stood, Jordan corrected herself, realizing something about the mech had changed since the stone had been inserted. Even its stance spoke of something different, something fresh, alive, and distinctly feminine.
“Where am I?” a voice echoed out as if someone called up from deep in a well. The sound was nearly as tinny—as metallic—as the contraption’s body.
“You are on an airship. Alive in a new and more powerful body.”
“Alive?” the automaton whispered, somehow sounding even more distant.
“Yes. Most certainly alive. And ready to take back some of the power that was stolen from you at your execution,” he promised.
“Execution …” she said. “I remember …”
“Yes,” the Wandering Wallace muttered. “Executions are memorable moments … But let us dwell on the future rather than be mired in the past, shall we?”
The bald metal head cocked.
“We march on Philadelphia to correct the oversights of the current government and free the slaves. To free the slaves of all varieties.”
“You would change the world so much?” the mech asked.
“Yes,” the Wandering Wallace said. “Most definitely. Will you help us? Will you put your mark on history?”
“Yes,” the mech replied. “I shall.”
For the rest of that evening their crew worked to bring the mechs to life and orient them to their new existence. Only once did they need to remove the soul stone and replace it with another.
Some souls could not be salvaged, some people were too dangerous to ever bring back.
***
Aboard the Airship Artemesia
On the Artemesia, the rebel leaders had reconvened at the Topside tables, Meggie, Maude, and Miyakitsu playing nearby the Conductor’s dais, Somebunny propped up to watch. Taking off her hat, and shaking her head so her long red hair fell around her shoulders, Evie muttered, “At the best we have that army of automatons—”
“Automata,” the Wandering Wallace corrected, picking at a cruller.
Evie blinked. “What?”
“Automata,” the Wandering Wallace said. “Latin plural.”
Evie rolled her eyes. “American singular,” she said, pointing to herself. “I care little about the
Latin plural,” she confessed, “when we float at the brink of revolution.”
“In stressful times it is important not to lose touch with appropriate decorum. One must not drop one’s standards merely because war threatens,” the Wandering Wallace quipped.
“Whatever,” Evie conceded with a sigh. “Whatever they are. You have a small marching army of them, a handful of liberally aligned traders—”
“Let us call a spade a spade, shall we?” he said.
Evie sucked in a deep breath, straightening her shoulders and raising her chin. “How so?”
“Let us be rid of the misnomer ‘liberally aligned trader’ and speak the truth, shall we? Pirates. Your people are pirates. Not that there is anything wrong with that,” he clarified, poking another piece of pastry into the space between the bird’s dramatic beaks.
“You do not make conversation easy, do you, Wandering Wallace?”
“Conversation might not always be easy with me, but I am determined that it shall be clear and correct.”
“Hmm,” she said. She glanced to Marion for assistance, but he seemed more interested in watching the girls play by Jordan’s feet. “Mind if I get to the point?”
“I rather encourage that,” the Wandering Wallace said, cocking his head in a way so birdlike it unnerved her.
Her fingers tapped the table’s surface. “We are undermanned and undergunned,” she said. “You want revolution to come to the city that sets the precedent when it comes to Weather Working, but I do not think we have the numbers to do such a thing. This is a suicide mission.”
“No. Most certainly not.” He pulled cards from—from somewhere; as far as she was concerned he might as well have pulled them out of his ass—and fanned the cards out with a rasp. “We have something better than a standing army,” he declared. He motioned with his glossy beak toward the dais where Jordan worked, tweaking the positions of mechanical things Evie understood the workings of well enough. “We have the Stormbringer.”