Gunwitch: The Clockwork Assassin

By David R. Michael

Rose Bainbridge, gunwitch, would prefer her return to New Venezia were more discreet. Instead, she’s sailing into the busy port town aboard a known pirate vessel, in the company of the enigmatic orphan Janett Laxton, with the mutilated body of Lord Bernard Fuller in a coffin of ice. The assassin who killed Lord Fuller and--somehow--took his place, has already been in New Venezia for a week. Who is he? Where is he from? Who will he kill next? And how do you catch someone who can disguise themselves as anyone? As Rose prepares to take the body to the authorities and expose the assassin, she wonders if anyone will believe her. And if she’ll be able to keep Janett--who’s magical gifts are becoming difficult to hide--out of trouble.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David R. Michael
• Release date: Jul 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463549551

David R. Michael

Most days, David Michael is a software developer and a writer. Some days, he’s a writer and a software developer. Other days, he’s an amateur photographer. Because, really, who is the same person every day?David is the designer and developer of The Journal, personal journaling software for Windows. He has also designed and developed video games, and has written two nonfiction books and numerous articles about video game development.David lives with his wife and kids in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Rose

ROSE BAINBRIDGE STOOD ON THE worn planks of the docks and waited for the pallet with the coffin of Lord Bernard Fuller to be hoisted from Coltello’s open hold. Coltello’s faded Florentine colors snapped in the breeze, but her sails had been furled and tied and the spars of her three masts secured out of the way so the crew could use the boom to unload the sloop’s only cargo.

Around her, the San Giovanni Docks on the southern shore of Lake Patrizio were alive with sailors and longshoremen overseen by merchants and clerks, everyone shouting and grunting at one another as they pulled on lines of rope or argued lines of credit. Large men and even larger grunzers loaded and unloaded pallets, stacked them and stowed them for either shipment or storage. Barrels rolled and sloshed on their ways to and from, men swore and grumbled, and grunzers hissed steam and clanked about under the sharp-tongued guidance of their handlers. Above it all, gulls and pelicans, egrets and fish crows, perched on the bare limbs of a forest of masts, kept noisy watch, screeching and cawing in challenge and response to each other and the men below.

Amidst the normal morning chaos of the docks, made damp but not diminished by the gray November weather, Rose doubted anyone had noticed her when she walked down the gangplank from Coltello’s deck to take her current position. Dressed in blue cotton trousers and a shapeless, undyed cotton shirt from the sloop’s common chest, wrapped in an oilskin cloak against the drizzle and with a woolen Monmouth cap pulled over the twin braids of her long brown hair, she looked like one of Coltello’s crew, four of whom stood to her right holding the boom line and keeping it taut. If not fully anonymous, she did not look like anyone worth noticing. Just another sailor on the docks.

Anonymity suited her current purpose, but she took some comfort in the thought that one man in New Venezia would be happy to see her—and might already know she had arrived. Coltello, known as a privateer out of Founsteeth, sailing into New Venezia under Florentine colors that had not seen the sun in over a decade, had almost surely been noticed. Word of Coltello’s arrival would have reached the fort by now, and, soon after, Major Ian Haley.

But she would see Ian later. After she had delivered the body of Lord Fuller to General Tendring. After she had exposed the imposter posing as Lord Fuller. After she had delivered Commodore Conadino’s dire warning. At which point she could make absolutely certain Ian had not a scratch on him, and not a hair from Lena Urbani’s head anywhere about his person. Ian had been aboard the HMS Wrath of Elisabeth with the imposter Lord Fuller and, more distressingly, that damnable woman, when the ship left Founsteeth nine days ago, two days ahead of her.

The chill of the morning breeze found its way under her oilskin cloak. She shrugged to suppress a shiver, then clasped the lapels of the cloak with her left hand to hold it closed. Her right hand remained out of sight, under the cloak, fingers wrapped around the butt of the pistol pushed into her leather belt. In her current clothes she might be unremarkable, but the sight of her pistol would announce who—and what—she was to anyone.

At a first glance from a casual observer, her flintlock pistol would look like an antique, possibly a weapon her grandfather had used in a war before the turn of the eighteenth century, passed down to her father and finally to her. The carved wood of the stock, stained dark and polished by decades of use, was shaped in a style long out of fashion when Rose was presented with the pistol twenty-four years before. The forged steel barrel was longer by inches than pistols made in the past decade, and had become almost black over the years. The flintlock mechanism, from hammer to pan, frizzen to frizzen spring, was of the classic design, but bulkier than one that would be assembled in one of New Venezia’s gunsmith’s shop, or even those still in use by the soldiers of Fort Gunter who guarded the city.

It was a second glance, a familiar double take by the no longer quite so casual observer, that revealed the true nature of the pistol. What might have been taken for ornamental carvings in the stock and along the length of the barrel could then be seen to be runes. Angular symbols from the English Isles and the Continent merged with pictographs and glyphs adopted from the Mayans had been carved into the wood and struck into the steel. The runes covered every surface, even the trigger, and traced patterns of magic that reinforced wood and steel and enhanced the pistol—and marked her for what she was. No one but a gunwitch would carry such a weapon.

She glanced around quickly, confirmed her continued anonymity, then returned her focus to the air above the open hold.

Lord Bernard Fuller, merchant and peer, could have afforded a much more elaborate coffin than the plain wooden box he had traveled in from Founsteeth to New Venezia. Being dead, however, he had not been in a position to protest the hastily assembled box with no markings currently strapped to a pallet. Nothing but the box’s size and dimensions indicated what it contained. The crew knew, of course, and had grumbled more than once within her hearing about the bad luck of being a ship of the dead.

That bad luck, among others, had been blamed for Coltello requiring six days to make a trip that should have taken only three. Rose did not believe in bad luck. Fall weather in the Gulf of Azteka could be unpredictable.

The men near her stiffened, keeping tension on the boom line as the coffin rose into the humid, November air. Thick plumes of fog formed around the wooden box as it rose. White wisps curled and dissipated in the air as the coffin swayed on the end of its ropes, and raindrops froze into little beads of ice on contact with the wood.

Hold the line—! shouted Mister Abbate, the quartermaster. Rose could not see the big man from the dock, but his voice was loud enough to keep the coffin aloft by itself.

The coffin jerked, falling back several feet before being stopped suddenly. The ropes protested with groans of straining fibers. Coffin and pallet swung back and forth, dripping fog and drawing attention. Rose reconsidered her opinion of the superstitions of sailors. She focused on the coffin, preparing herself in case she needed to intervene.

Hold the line! Captain Fabbro shouted, louder than the quartermaster. "You can cross yourself and pray to Mother Mary after you have both hands free, you ignorant Sicilian, and not while you need those hands to lift the cargo. If you drop the damned box in the water, or worse, in such a way as to leave a mark on my beloved Coltello, you will find yourself standing before the Holy Mother Herself, explaining what you are doing there when She knows and I know and you know in your dark little heart you should be swimming in the lake of fire. Now hold the damned line, and heave!"

Coffin and pallet rose again, swaying in shorter arcs as it neared the block and tackle on the boom.

Rose frowned. She gripped her pistol tighter.

There had been no other way to transport Lord Fuller’s body intact. Even in November’s cooler weather, even if Coltello had been able to make the trip in three days instead of six, the humid climate of the Gulf of Azteka would have quickly rendered the body unrecognizable. The corpse would have begun to swell and stink as decay took hold. So Rose had had the coffin made, and had it sealed with pitch. Then she had filled it with water to surround the body, and frozen the lot—corpse, water and box.

That had been the real beginning of the talk of bad luck, as it always was. Being known as a gunwitch was one thing. Being witnessed as a gunwitch was always quite another.

Because she had to renew the magic at sunrise and sundown to prevent the ice melting, below decks had been colder than on deck, causing many of the men to hang their hammocks topside, as if it were summer. None of the men had blamed her for getting rained on while they slept. Not to her face, and seldom in English. Instead, they talked in low, Italian voices to each other about stregas and bad luck when she was near, which was often on a sloop the size of Coltello.

With Captain Saviero Fabbro’s barbed encouragement, and the more pointed instructions of Mister Abbate, the men on the line regained control of the pallet and lifted it clear. At a signal from Mister Abbate, the four men standing ready on the dock near Rose pulled on their line, causing the boom to swing and pull the pallet over the port side toward them and Rose.

More shouts erupted from the men on Coltello and the pallet shook as competing lines of rope tugged in different directions.

Rose sighed, shaking her head, just before Janett Laxton came into view at the top of the gangplank. Under the gray clouds overhead, the red silk of Janett’s dress shown like a red sunrise of warning.

Rose had left Janett in the first mate’s cabin they had shared for the trip. The girl had been spending far too much time deciding what to wear for their arrival in New Venezia. She had only two choices, and one of them had been completely inappropriate. Obviously inappropriate. The girl had even asked Rose for an opinion, probably because she was accustomed to asking female companions for advice on such matters and not because she had expected a useful response. Rose had only shrugged, pushed her pistol into her belt, then said she would be on deck. Now Rose saw the error of leaving a seventeen year old girl to make such a choice on her own.

The long silk dress with its cream-colored lace complimented Janett’s auburn hair and pale skin. The dress had been one of the Commodore’s parting gifts. The cut of the dress, combined with the new wisdom in the girl’s blue eyes, made her look older than her years. Despite the wind-scattered sprinkles of rain, the girl was not wearing the oilskin cloak the Commodore had also given her for the trip, relying instead on the dress’s matching wraparound shawl. The old pirate had offered Rose a dress, as well, then laughed at Rose’s insistence that he would never see her in a dress again. Once had been more than enough, and Founsteeth had barely survived the incident.

Rose could feel the anonymity of their arrival in New Venezia flying away in the breeze that tugged on her cloak.

Janett paused at the top of the gangplank and adjusted the shawl on her shoulders as she looked around. She spotted Rose, acknowledged her with a nod, and proceeded down the plank to the dock, seemingly oblivious to the chaos that had erupted behind her, in front of her, and above her.

By the Blessed Virgin Mother of God, Captain Fabbro was shouting, "stop lusting after the gnocca. Put your minds—and your hands—and your backs—and all the other wandering parts of you—back into your own bloody business!"

You there! shouted Mister Abbate, suddenly visible at the railing, pointing a beefy finger over Janett’s head at the men on dock. Take up that slack! If you plan to eat anything you didn’t catch yourself on the way back to Founsteeth, you will take up that slack and you will heave this steaming pile of cargo off my boat!

"That’s my boat, Mister Abbate."

Aye, captain, the quartermaster shouted back over his shoulder. Then he glared at the men on the line again. Heave!

The men heaved, if not exactly in unison. The slack went out of the line and the boom and the pallet with its cold coffin swung over the railing in a swirling cloud of fog.

Janett noticed the men staring at her when she reached the dock. She smiled and nodded in their general direction, then walked directly from the foot of the gangplank toward Rose.

Rose stopped focusing on the ton of wood-encased ice and corpse dangling overhead and ignored Mister Abbate’s shouted, Hold! Hold! She ignored the sounds of men suddenly straining against the weight of that load, trying to stop its descent. She stared at Janett as the girl blithely walked under it all. Rose felt her knuckles turn white from her grip on her pistol. Her breath fogged the air in front of her face as cold welled up inside her and prepared to snatch Janett out of harm’s way if either the lines or the men reached their breaking point.

Janett never even looked up, leaving Rose to wonder who would save the girl if—or when—Rose reached her own breaking point.

I have been in the captain’s cabin, Janett said as she stopped in front of Rose. Since she also wore the four-inch mules the Commodore had given her with the dress, and Rose was wearing moccasins, they stood eye to eye. The girl’s expression was a haughty glare. She opened her mouth to say more, but was interrupted as the pallet came down heavily behind her.

Bloody Hell—! Janett shouted, jumping. She staggered as she regained her balance on the mules, then turned. Her face became paler, which was surprising, and her lips pressed together into a tight line, as she stared at the broken pallet and the cold fog streaming from the wooden slats of the coffin. Shrill steam whistles sounded all across the dock, followed by a long second of almost total silence.

Rose felt as if the entire population of the San Giovanni Docks, human, grunzer, and avian, had stopped to stare at her and Janett and the hoarfrosted coffin. So much for a quiet arrival. She had no doubt even the farthest-flung outpost of the Amerigon Colonies now knew Rose Bainbridge and Janett Laxton had arrived in New Venezia aboard a pirate vessel flying Florentine colors.

Rose watched as Janett touched a hand to her head, then heard Janett mutter something under her breath that might have been a prayer if it had not also included a sharp, Fie!

Saint Peter’s dangling keys, girl, Mister Abbate shouted, breaking the silence with something clearly not a prayer, don’t you know any better than to—

I am fine, Mister Abbate, Janett said, interrupting the quartermaster. She adjusted her shawl as if the crash had knocked it askew. Thank you very much for your concern. She turned her back on the man as he crossed himself and muttered what Rose was certain was also not a prayer. More than one of the men still holding the rope, dropped it, and crossed themselves as well.

Around them, the San Giovanni Docks turned away and resumed their busy morning.

Janett took a breath, crossed her arms under her breasts, and resumed her earlier glare at Rose. I have been in the captain’s cabin, she said again.

Alone? Rose asked with a mix of mocking and real surprise. The girl had no understanding of boundaries. What would Mistress Fletcher think?

Yes, alone, Janett said, a slight flush returning color to her cheeks at the mention of her former chaperone. Of course alone. I was reviewing the charts of the coast. Captain Fabbro was on the wheel deck at the time, she added. Shouting. Which is completely beside the point. Do not try to divert me, Rose Bainbridge.

Rose forced a tight smile. Since she had rescued Janett from the Ubasi fort, the girl had had the disconcerting ability to peer into Rose’s mind. Rose could keep the girl out of her head, but it required concentration, and sometimes she let her guard down.

"I do not need to peer into your mind, Janett said, to know you are avoiding my questions."

Rose put her mental guard back in place with more force—and a darker look—than was strictly necessary. I’m not the only one avoiding questions.

Janett blinked, startled. She rubbed a knuckle of her left hand against her temple. That will not dissuade me, either. We will discuss my… my…

Being a witch? Rose supplied in a low voice. After twenty-four years, she no longer stumbled over the word. She had been only two years younger than Janett when the word witch had become her life’s sentence. A different kind of witch, though. A gunwitch, trained and given the pistol that marked her as human artillery. Janett’s particular form of witchcraft was rarer, and, Rose hoped, more easily hidden. Or could be more easily hidden if the girl would talk to her. And wear more sensible clothes.

Janett looked stricken, and more than a little panicked as she glanced around. Of course there were men still looking at her, at both of them, but none of the men were close enough to have heard what Rose had said over the shouting of Mister Abbate and the first mate, describing in very detailed Italian the shortcomings of a crew that was so easily distracted it nearly sank its own ship. Janett pursed her lips and regained her composure. She nodded. Yes.

Janett had been almost broaching that topic the entire trip. Circling it, sidling up to it at night when they were alone in their tiny cabin, but never coming right out and talking about it.

Rose had broached the subject once, before they left Founsteeth. Janett had been so upset, though, that Rose had said only, We cannot ignore this. Janett had walked away then, as if to prove that she, at least, could ignore anything.

A fresh gust of wind made the girl shiver and left a scattering of dark drops on the silk of her shawl. Rose uncurled the fingers of her right hand from her pistol, then took off her oilskin cloak and wrapped it around Janett’s shoulders. The girl started to protest, then tugged the cloak closed. Not for the first time, Rose wondered if this was what it was like being a mother. The urge to protect. The desire to help. The frustrating inability to communicate.

She glanced around to see if anyone had noticed her pistol. She need not have bothered. Dressed as a sailor, standing next to Janett, she was all but invisible.

Rose wondered if Janett was seeing the end of her life as she knew it. The deaths of her father, Colonel Laxton, and her sister, Margaret, were still recent, but Janett never talked of that either. And then to learn she was a witch. Did the girl think she could hide from what had happened? From what she had become? From what she had always been but never known?

Rose also wondered if Janett blamed her, if not for the losses—or maybe for those too, since Rose had been there—then for being a witch. As if being a witch were a contagious disease and the girl had caught it from her. She wondered, but she did not ask. The girl would have to make her own choices, and ask her own questions.

That is a discussion for a later time, Janett said, avoiding the topic once again. She took a breath, then went on. I have been reviewing the charts of the coast.

Beyond Janett, Captain Fabbro appeared at the top of the gangplank. At the sight of him, Mister Abbate stopped in middiatribe, then shouted, Come on then. We’re not finished here.

Two of the men on the dock managed to stop leering at Janett and stepped up to the pallet. They began untying the knots that had lifted the pallet.

Rose noticed Janett seemed to be waiting for her to say something. And?

And besides Mauvilla Bay, Janett went on, "I counted at least a half-dozen settlements we might have visited on our long, cross-country walk to I Denti della Fontana. Visited and, I dare say, spent the night. In a bed." Janett finished with a curt nod, as if she had made her point.

Rose nodded. That sounds about right.

Janett’s expression became more stern. And yet we visited none of them. We saw no one. And we spent every night out of doors.

Rose nodded again, then shrugged. "You should have checked those charts of the coast before we made the trip to Founsteeth. Then you could have suggested such stops."

Janett drew herself to her full height. "I did not know— She stopped. How could we not, she went on after a second’s pause, have at the very least stopped in Mauvilla Bay?"

Rose looked away. I know people there.

She could feel Janett’s eyes on her face, the girl’s mind trying to touch hers.

Is that not a good reason to visit?

Rose shook her head and kept her memories to herself. She met Janett’s eyes again. Not always.

And I Denti— Janett stopped. "Founsteeth, she said, all but spitting the common name for the port city. A pirate haven—?"

Pirate haven? said Captain Fabbro as he stepped beside Janett. Like the girl, Captain Fabbro had changed out of his more appropriate sea clothes. He wore a long, blue coat with gold buttons and red trim. The coat looked well cared for, but also old enough to have been the one worn when he was still an officer in the Florentine Navy and Coltello’s native colors had been fresh-dyed. An ornate pistol was pushed into the wide black belt that wrapped around his midsection and a matching cutlass hung from the belt. He put his right hand over his heart. I am stung. The poor merchants of I Denti della Fontana are not pirates—

No, Rose said. Just the captains and the sailors. She looked Captain Fabbro up and down. I see no ‘poor merchants’ here.

Ah, another barb to the heart, Captain Fabbro said, then laughed. I must learn to beware the charms of English ladies. He bowed to Rose, then again, more deeply, to Janett. But at the same time, you flatter me, he went on as he straightened. These are but the humble garments of a man who makes his living on the sea.

And you want to look your best, no doubt, when the sheriff comes to arrest you?

Rose! Janett said. Captain Fabbro has been our host.

It has been my honor, Miss Laxton, he said, bowing again, and the honor of my crew, to bring you to New Venezia.

Rose shook her head, but said nothing. She knew what the crew thought, and she knew the captain knew.

But now I must leave you, he went on, for I must pay a visit to both the harbormaster and, yes, the very honorable Sheriff Gregory, to pass along the compliments and best wishes of Don Conadino. And to ensure that our short stay remains amicable. His hand moved from his heart to rest on a felt bag that hung on his hip and he smiled as he jingled it. After that, I must pay my respects to my cousin Rufio and his very charming wife.

You know Sheriff Gregory? Janett asked.

It would seem, Rose said, he knows the honorable sheriff quite well.

Captain Fabbro’s smile became, somehow, even brighter. Indeed I do. His smile remained as bright, but a mischievous gleam came to his eye. Normally our little visits are in a, shall we say, more private venue, but then I do not always have the opportunity to dress up in my former finery.

And the harbormaster? Do you visit him often?

I hope to make the acquaintance of Harbormaster Keast today, and to present him with the compliments of the Commodore— He stopped and corrected himself. "The Don. I hear the harbormaster has a fondness for the wines of Firenze, and I hope to invite him back to Coltello for a sampling."

Rose said, "And to make sure the Wrath of Elizabeth does not turn her wrath on Coltello?"

The captain’s smile finally faltered. "Coltello would have little to fear of Broadside Betty on the open waters of the Gulf of Azteka. Even confined to Lake Patrizio, Coltello could lead her round and round a merry chase. But tied up here in the San Giovanni, or tacking back and forth within the narrow Canalies, we would be at the mercy of the angry Queen of the English Seas and our Blessed Mary Mother of God. He crossed himself, finishing with his fingers on his lips. He smiled again and gave a flourish with his hand. So, yes, I go to make friends with the harbormaster. Mister Abbate will see that a wagon is brought for your sea chests and… other cargo."

Rose started to thank him, but Janett cut her off.

Thank you, Captain Fabbro, Janett said, but that will not be necessary. Have our packs delivered to Latessa House, on Nobile Street. We will be taking the coffin with us now.

Truly? asked Captain Fabbro, using the opportunity to again admire Janett in her dress.

On a nearby dock, a grunzer let loose a shrill steam whistle, loudly dropped what it had been carrying and walked away from its handler, ignoring the man’s obscenity-laden commands to get back to work.

Rose looked at Janett. Then she shook her head and turned away. She could not peer into the girl’s mind, which was probably a blessing, but she did not need to. She had no doubt another inappropriate, anonymity-destroying decision had been made.

Chapter 2

Janett

JANETT LAXTON FELT HER SMILE fade as Rose frowned and looked away. She had expected Rose to be, if not exactly proud of her, at least appreciative. After all, why should they wait for a wagon when they were obviously in a hurry, and on a very important errand? Lord Fuller had been murdered, and his assassin was cavorting about New Venezia wreaking who knew what kind of havoc. The Lord Governor himself might be in danger.

Captain Fabbro’s dark eyes searched her face in a way she usually appreciated in a man. He looked more than a bit confused, and seemed to be searching for the meaning under her words. She had said nothing coy or clever, though, so her impatience flared. She turned her back on him and Rose and strode toward the advancing grunzer.

After the pallet with Lord Fuller’s coffin had crashed down behind her, startling her—very nearly causing her heart to jump out of her chest—six grunzers working on the docks nearby had stopped what they were doing and whistled—at a thoroughly unnecessary volume—their readiness and willingness to protect her from whatever had frightened her. She had quietly, below her breath, told them she had not been at all frightened, merely surprised, thanked them, and dismissed them.

It was Captain Fabbro’s mentioning the need for a wagon that had prompted her to reach out again, even more quietly this time—using only her mind, and no whispered vulgarities—to the nearest of those grunzers and ask it to lend her a hand. The grunzer, which had been outfitted with tines for lifting pallets, informed her that it had no hands but would be happy to offer such help as it could. The grunzer also let her know its handler called it Aught, short for Aught a Brain in Its Rusty Carcass, but that it preferred Rusty. Then it had set down its current load and headed toward her.

Rusty walked along the piers of the docks in an unsteady but implacable gait. Its two metal legs were reverse jointed, like a bird’s, and it had a slight limp caused by a combination of corrosion and low fluids in its right leg. Its spherical boiler and attached firebox canted back and forth as it walked, causing its smokestack to pen a zigzag of black smoke in the air above it. Someone had once drawn a leering face on the blank faceplate of the grunzer’s brainbox, tucked low in front of the boiler, but the face had all but disappeared under layers of red and orange rust, salty grime, and white bird droppings. Rusty’s arms were more humanly jointed, mounted on either side of its boiler. It used the long tines attached to its arms to move people and cargo out of its way as it walked, gently sweeping them to one side or the other. It whistled a beg-your-pardon each time, but only Janett could hear the words, spoken in a grating, ratcheting monotone in her head.

Janett tried not to think about how she knew so much about the internal mechanisms of the grunzer, such as its boiler temperature—running a bit hot—or its hydraulic fluids pressure—diminishing as the fluid dripped in a slow leak from a pinched hose in the grunzer’s right hip. When she had first arrived in New Venezia, before she had traveled upriver with her sister, Margaret, and Rose and Major Haley to visit the fort where her father—

She tried to stop that line of thought, but only managed to deflect her thoughts to more recent events.

Before her trip to Founsteeth—

Her jaw clenched, grinding her own teeth.

Before the battle at the Costo and her… experiences… with the… the Other, she had never looked twice at a grunzer. Never heard their voices in her head. Now she could look at a grunzer and know almost instantly everything about it, from how long it had been in service to how recently it had received maintenance. From water pressure to the quality of coal it was burning. From loose bolts to faulty welds.

Nothing in her upbringing in Clifton, back in England, had prepared her for… any of that. So she tried not to think about it.

Thinking of Clifton made her think of her mother, which was something else she did not wish to consider. Not if Mother were on her way to New Venezia, as the memory of Margaret in her dreams had insisted every night of their six-day voyage, just before showing her the small, gray rock ringed with red and yellow blanket flowers marking the grave of their father. Remember this place, Margaret always insisted. Remember Da’s grave. Bring Mum.

Pushing aside thoughts of Mother and Margaret and graves, Janett focused on Rusty as the grunzer came closer. She tried not to think or remember anything else beyond the need to see Lord Fuller’s murderer exposed. After that, she could return to her rooms at Latessa House and… She tried not to think of it as hiding.

Rusty’s monotonic litany of boiler temperature, steam pressure, coal levels, and more were almost soothing. At least Rusty and none of the nearby grunzers gibbered in her head the way the Other had—

She pulled the oilskin cloak tighter and renewed her efforts to not think about such things.

The man Rusty referred to as its handler followed in the grunzer’s wake, shouting obscenities in four languages, suggesting vulgar acts that were highly improbable—and almost certainly audible in the city itself, far from the docks. The man wore a long-sleeved shirt that had once been white, with a brown sleeveless vest over it and baggy breeches of a similar, but not quite matching color. He had a woolen hat with a narrow brim pulled down to his ears and the ends of his graying brown hair stuck out in all directions. His chin was clean shaven, but his sideburns and mustache rivalled his hair in their amount of gray and lack of visible grooming. He carried an ironshod staff as long as he was tall, and his heavy shoes came down on the wood of the docks with almost as much noise as Rusty’s four-toed metal feet.

Where in the bloody blazes do you think you’re off to, Aught? the man was shouting as he shook the staff. Eh? You best be stopping, you clanking imbecile of a jackass. Are you even listening to me? Eh? You offspring of a blacksmith’s broken hammer! The man swung the staff so its metal tip struck Rusty’s right knee, the one with the limp, with a loud clang. Listen to me, you rusty bastard! You illegitimate wretch of a sprocket—

Rusty apologized profusely—and much more politely than Janett would have done—but again, only Janett could hear the words. To the handler and everyone else, there was only a whistle with what might have been an apologetic tone.

Don’t you be shrieking that insolence at me, Aught, you pile of junk with only enough brains in your leaking box to be stupid. The handler hit Rusty on the knee again. You stop walking this instant, eh? And you get back to your work. You know how Mister Bunco gets when the work isn’t done. He’ll take you apart and put you back together as a bloody complicated weather vane, won’t he? And then what’s he going to do to me, eh?

Janett decided she had heard quite enough. She opened her mouth to use her recent education in Italian nautical terms to tell the man where he could next swing that staff—

Miss Laxton, Captain Fabbro said behind her. He caught up with her and put his left hand on her right arm, stopping her. "Though you passed from my care when stepped off Coltello’s gangplank, still you are my concern."

Thank you, captain. Janett gave him a tight smile, then shook her arm free. She turned to face Rusty and its handler again. You there! she shouted. You stop hitting that—that—Rusty.

Rusty, clanking, noisome stack of gears, you mean, the handler said. He hit Rusty’s firebox hard enough to make the grunzer stumble. Stand back, miss. This clankie has gone off its head and there’s no telling what it’s going to do—

Janett’s vision went double. She saw herself advancing and glaring, pointing at the handler, and, at the same time, saw Rusty stopping, spinning at the waist to face its handler, generating a ratcheting, clanking tattoo of gears long past the need of decent lubrication. Rusty’s right arm came up and around, as if it were going to grab the staff from the handler. Except Rusty had no hands, only tines. Janett made a swatting, shooing gesture with her right hand. Rusty’s right arm and tine mimicked the motion, striking the staff hard and knocking it out of the handler’s grip. The staff bounced off the planks of the pier, then flew in a spinning arc to splash into the dark water.

Why you oversized, under—

Rusty whistled an apology, drowning out the words of the handler, who stood there, still shouting, shaking his right hand and flexing his arm and looking more surprised than angry.

—Bunco? Eh? the handler shouted into the silence after Rusty’s whistle. Do you know—

The rest of the man’s question was lost to the cacophony of Rusty’s lower half coming around, back into alignment with its upper half.

—what in the cold, raining Hell, Aught? the handler was shouting as the clanking stopped. You nearly took my hand off! He wiggled his fingers in front of his face, then extended them one a time, counting them. He massaged his wrist with the other hand as he went on. What could you possibly be thinking in that corroded, unlubricated collection of sparking devilry of an imbecilic mind of yours that would make you do that? I’m of a mind to send you down there to get my staff back. Oh, aye, said the handler, as if Rusty had responded. It would be a one way trip, wouldn’t it? Eh?

Rusty whistled another apology, more contrite than the first. It really had not meant to do that. It did not know what had come over it.

At the sound of Rusty’s whistle, the man flinched and put his hands up in front of his face. Then the man noticed Janett again. She stood just behind the grunzer, on its right.

See, miss? the handler said, pointing up at Rusty’s brainbox. What did I tell you, eh? Aught here is out of what little mind such a contraption usually has.

Its name, Janett said, is Rusty, you beastly, uncouth man.

The man stared at her, searching her face for the very obvious meaning of her exact words.

Begging your pardon, miss, he said in a tone devoid of begging, but who in the damp, black Hell are you to be telling me what to call this—

That is quite enough, Captain Fabbro said, stepping up beside Janett.

The handler stepped around Rusty and walked up to Captain Fabbro until they were almost nose to nose. I have a rogue clankie on my hands, and you want to play the gallant gentleman, do you, sir? Eh?

It is not a rogue, Janett said. Both men ignored her assertion, preferring to glare at each other, so she repeated it, louder. "It is not a rogue. Rusty is doing what I—"

Her words were lost under the sound of Rusty’s lack of regular maintenance as it turned around to face them.

—will apologize, Captain Fabbro was saying as Rusty went still. Or I will—

—best be prancing your fancy Papist arse back up that plank, the handler was shouting. Or you will what? Eh?

Janett raised her right hand and saw Rusty’s right tine raise in tandem. She wanted Rusty to—very gently—knock the handler on the head.

Rusty whistled his apology to her—triggering a snapped, Quiet, you! from the handler—then begged her pardon in a much more convincing manner than the handler had. Rusty did not want to strike the handler. In spite of this, Rusty took a noisy step forward.

Janett decided she would be satisfied if the handler were merely swept out of the way. Off the pier and into the water would do. Rusty did not want to do that either, but would, if Janett insisted—

Is this grunzer for hire?

Janett jumped in surprise and Rusty froze with its tine raised. She had been so focused on Rusty she had not noticed Rose appear on the opposite side of Captain Fabbro, somehow inserting herself between the two men. Rose had her hands on her belt, one on either side of her pistol.

Of course Aught is for hire, the handler said. He was responding to Rose, but kept his eyes locked with Captain Fabbro’s. Did you think this was my dancing monkey? Eh? My pet canary what sings ditties on command?

Rusty retracted its right