Khronos (Hanover and Singh Book 3) Read online

  “Vlad?” Stepan pulled his leg free of the woman’s grip.

  “I am okay,” Vladimir stopped, his chest heaving, blood trickling from a cut in his brow. “But I cannot stop them. Can’t even slow them down.” He looked back at the approaching machines. “We must go, Kapitan.”

  Stepan gripped Vladimir’s arm and pointed at the woman. “One arm each. We’ll drag her out of here.” The woman wailed as Stepan and Vladimir pulled her between them as they ran.

  “Where is Nikolas?”

  Stepan shook his head. “I have not seen him.” Pausing at the entrance to a warehouse, Stepan nodded in the direction of the open door. “In here.” Leading the way, Stepan let go of the woman’s arm as Vladimir propped her up against the packing crates inside the warehouse. The clank of the emissaries drew closer.

  “Kapitan,” Vladimir left the woman and crossed to stand by Stepan’s side. “We need to go.”

  “Wait a minute,” Stepan waved his hand toward the machines as they clanked past the warehouse. He watched as they moved beyond the warehouse and out of sight. “I counted eight ships,” he gripped Vladimir’s shoulder. “Nikolas counted twenty-five...”

  “Twenty-six,” Vladimir wiped the blood from his cheek.

  “Yes, twenty-six machines from just one ship.”

  “They were supposed to be workers, automated machines for the shipyard and mines.” Vladimir examined the blood smeared upon his palm. “What is this about?”

  “I don’t know,” Stepan let go of Vladimir’s shoulder and walked to the door. Leaning against the frame, he stared in the direction the emissaries had disappeared, following the spoor of broken bodies with his eyes. “Nikolas,” Stepan took a deep breath.

  “We’ll find him,” Vladimir walked past Stepan and into the street. “Are you coming, Kapitan?”

  Stepan slammed his fist upon the doorframe and nodded. “Yes.” Removing his sword belt, Stepan let the scabbard fall to the ground. Flinging his ceremonial cap onto a packing crate, Stepan jogged out of the warehouse and down the street. Vladimir fell into step alongside him. “We’ll follow the crowd until we find him.”

  “Yes, Kapitan. For as long as it takes.”

  Chapter 2

  The Flying Scotsman

  Somewhere over the North Sea

  May, 1851

  Luise Hanover smoothed her fingers over the rough paper pages of her notebook. Tracing the khronoglyphs with the tip of her little finger, she chewed at her bottom lip. The packing cases and crates enclosing her in a square pocket of hardwood creaked as The Flying Scotsman buffeted in the wind. Loose pages of khronoglyphs, the corners tucked into the cracks in the wood flapped within Luise’s workspace, the edges curling and teasing inches from her nose.

  At Luise’s feet, the cylindrical impediment machine rocked with the movement of the airship. At the turn of each page in her notebook, Luise glanced at the machine, pressing the toe of her black leather boot against the side of the cylinder to stop it rolling across the deck.

  Hari Singh paced around the outside of Luise’s research space. Stopping to peer over the crates, he rocked on the balls of his feet. Hari grasped the metal strut above him as the nose of the airship dipped violently downward. The packing cases leered over Luise’s shoulder, shifting with the rasp of rough wood.

  “It’s getting worse,” Luise pinched her notebook closed, marking the page with her index finger trapped between the leather covers. Pressing her nose with her knuckle, she suppressed a sneeze. “And with all this dust...”

  “Yes, Miss...” Hari braced himself with one hand on the strut and the other on the packing case in front of him. “Yes, Luise?”

  “Well, with all this dust,” Luise stopped to sneeze. “Our lungs will be a mess by the time we reach Copenhagen.” She sneezed again. Frowning, Luise pressed her fingers to her temple.

  “Is something wrong?” Hari leaned into the workspace.

  “No,” Luise looked up. “Just...”

  “Just what?”

  “It’s silly, but since the demons came through into our world, I have had a voice whispering inside my head. Several times, in fact.”

  “You never said anything.”

  “I didn’t know what to say, Hari.”

  “What does the voice say?”

  “I am not sure.” Luise tugged a folded piece of brown paper from between the back cover and the last page of her notebook. “It is not really whispering as such.” She waved the piece of paper. “More like symbols, really.”

  “Is that the note from the mystery man in Arkhangelsk?” Hari folded his hand on top of the crates and rested his chin on his fingers.

  “Yes,” Luise unfolded the piece of paper. “I still think it was more than a stroke of luck to receive this when I did. I mean,” she traced the tiny lines of khronoglyphs with the tip of her finger, “who would know I needed a glossary to help me decipher the language of time? It’s a dead language, Hari.”

  “Someone at your department must have made some enquiries.” Hari drummed the surface of the crate with his fingers. “But without that,” he pointed, “you would never have been able to build the machine.”

  “And now, perhaps,” Luise tapped her head, “I can decipher what is going on inside my head.”

  “Truly?” Hari grinned.

  “You mustn’t laugh, Hari Singh.”

  “Miss Luise, I would never...” Hari looked up at the door as the dogs securing it squealed and spun. Crawling over the crates and ducking down inside Luise’s workspace, Hari kneeled to peer through the gap facing the door.

  “What is it, Hari?”

  “Someone is coming,” Hari reached behind him, searching for Luise’s fingers.

  “Who?” Luise gripped Hari’s hand.

  “Shh.”

  A soft yellow light shone onto the metal grille floor of the cargo bay as the door swung open. Hari ducked as a crewman stepped onto the grille walkway, holding the lamp in his hand at arm’s length from his body.

  “What do you see, Jacques?”

  Hari watched as the crewman turned to look at his partner, a portly purser with a ferocious red moustache.

  “Nothing, Master Whyte,” Jacques took a further step along the grille. “It’s all quiet.”

  “Good then.” Whyte followed Jacques onto the grille. “Now scurry along and find the lady’s trunk so we can return to the officer’s lounge.” The purser steadied himself with a hand upon the door as The Flying Scotsman bucked in another buffet of wind. “Oh she’s wild today, Jacques, my lad.”

  “Aye, Master Whyte.” The lamp swung in Jacques’ hand as he shone the beam of light on the trunks, crates and packing cases piled on wooden pallets either side of the walkway. The skin beyond the framework of The Flying Scotsman paled grey under the gaze of Jacques’ lamp. His footsteps ringing upon the grille, Jacques moved further into the hold.

  “Check the corners, laddie,” Whyte dusted a metal label tacked into the surface of a nearby crate with his elbow. “I don’t know why the lady should be so concerned about her trunk, there’s no thievery aboard The Scotsman.”

  Hari shifted position to follow Jacques as he moved along the grille. Pressing her notebook tight to her chest, Luise released a tiny cloud of dust into her nose. She gripped the tails of Hari’s shirt hanging beneath the waistband of his maroon pantaloons. Hari turned, his eyes widening as Luise’s nose twitched.

  “Of course,” Whyte unhooked a clipboard hanging from a hook beside the door, “we could always just look and see where the lady’s trunk should be, eh Jacques?”

  Letting go of her notebook, Luise pinched her nose.

  “Well, Master Whyte,” the beam from the lamp played across the cargo hold as Jacques let it swing in his grip. “The lads won’t like me saying this, but they were in an awful hurry when we loaded – the Captain wanting to get ahead of the storm and all.”

  “What are you saying, Jacques?” Whyte tapped the back of the clipboard with long nails, mites
of dust swirling in the lamplight, tickling his skin beneath the up and down draughts of the purser’s breathing.

  “Well...” the lamp stopped swinging.

  “Speak up, Jacques.” Whyte’s fingers continued to tap.

  “Luise,” Hari whispered. Reaching forward, he clapped his hand over her nose. Luise wriggled beneath his grip. Her notebook slid to the floor. With a soft thump it landed on the metal grille beneath them.

  “I may as well just say it, Master Whyte.”

  “I think that would be best, laddie.”

  Jacques pointed at the clipboard in Whyte’s hands. “There’s no accounting for where things are. The lady’s trunk could be anywhere.” The lamplight flickered as Jacques swept his hand around the hold. “Just like everybody else’s.”

  “Well,” Whyte returned the clipboard to its hook. “I think we know what you will be doing for the remainder of this fine evening.”

  “Yes, Master Whyte,” Jacques let his eyes wander over the stacks and rows of chests, trunks, crates and packing cases. “I reckon as we do.”

  “You’ll let me know the minute you find it.”

  “Aye, that I will.”

  “Then I will retire to the officer’s lounge.” Whyte steadied himself against the doorframe as the airship encountered another blast of wind. Jacques staggered on the grille floor, stopping as he bumped into a stack of cases. “When you have found it, you might want to get some more men down here and secure the baggage.”

  “Yes, Master Whyte.”

  Whyte scanned the hold. “I think we are in for a rough ride.” Waving at Jacques, Whyte left the cargo hold, the sound of his shoes tapping on the metal grille echoed in the short corridor leading up to the lower deck.

  “Perfect,” Jacques set the lamp down on top of the nearest crate. Pulling a small round tin of snuff from a pocket sewn into the cuff of his jacket, he pinched two tiny heaps of white powder onto his wrist. With a loud sniff, Jacques snorted the powder into first his left and then his right nostril. Stuffing the tin back inside his cuff, he leaned back against the crates.

  Hidden within the square of crates and cases close to the door, Luise sneezed.

  “Sorry,” Luise mouthed as Hari removed his hand and slipped back onto his heels.

  “Who’s there?” Jacques pushed himself off the crates and picked up the lamp. Swinging the beam across the crates toward the door, he took a step forward on the grille. “Show yourself.”

  “Hari, don’t,” Luise reached up to grab Hari’s ankles as he climbed up and over the wall of their makeshift quarters. Hari turned at the top and looked down at Luise.

  “It’s all right,” his teeth lit the gloom of the cargo hold with a broad smile. “This is what I am good at.” Hari pointed at Luise’s notes hanging from the crates and the notebook on the floor. “Although, you might want to gather your notes. Just in case.”

  “Who are you?” The beam of light from Jacques’ lamp shuddered over Hari as he crouched on top of the crates.

  “Me?” Hari stood up and opened his arms. “I am Hari Singh.”

  “Hari what?” Jacques lifted the lamp until the beam shone in Hari’s face.

  “Singh,” Hari nodded. “I am a passenger.”

  “I don’t think so,” Jacques shook his head. “You are a stowaway.”

  With a sigh, Hari dropped down from the crate, landing on the grille walkway with a soft thud. “Yes,” he walked toward Jacques. “I have been known to stow away aboard various vessels.”

  “Stop there, mate,” Jacques raised his finger.

  “Although, never intentionally, I might add.” Hari closed the distance between them to a few feet.

  “I said stop,” Jacques retreated along the walkway, tugging the lamp out of reach as Hari lunged for it.

  “We can do this quietly,” Hari gripped the base of the lamp, pulled it free and plunged the hold into darkness as the oil spilled over his hand. Jacques stumbled, the lamp clattering to the floor as he let go of it. Hari tossed the base of the lamp aside and leaped onto Jacques chest. Pinning the man’s arms beneath his knees, Hari wiped his hand on the lapel of Jacques’ uniform.

  “I’m not... strong,” Jacques whimpered.

  “Really?” Hari frowned. “But you move all this,” he gestured at the crates.

  “Not me,” Jacques shook his head.

  Hari squinted at the man’s face as light from the door eased into the hold. “Then who?”

  “Hari,” Luise called out.

  “Yes?” Hari turned as the light from the door was obscured with the shadow of three large men.

  “Jacques?” The tallest of the three men stepped into the hold. “Master Whyte sent us down to shift some stuff. Right annoyed, he was.” The man peered along the walkway. “You there, Jacques?”

  “Yes,” Hari stood and pointed at Jacques lying on the grille walkway at his feet. “Your friend is right here.”

  “Eh?” The man walked forward. “And who are you then?”

  “A good question,” Hari smoothed his beard, sniffing at the oil on the skin of his hand. “Of course,” he took a step forward, “we might want to wait with introductions until we get the other formalities out of the way.”

  “Formalities?” The man leaned forward as Hari walked toward him. He stared at the large bent blade of Hari’s kukri in the scabbard hanging from Hari’s belt. “Wait a minute,” the man took a step back. “I don’t want any trouble.”

  “Good,” Hari continued forward. “Then the formalities will soon be over.”

  ҉

  Aether held up his hand to the sky. Flexing his fingers, he smiled at the blue tinge outlining his hand against the bulging dark mobs of storm clouds on the horizon threatening the city of London. Standing on the Grosvenor Docks jutting out into the Thames, he pulled the collar of his Burberry jacket up and buttoned it at the neck. Standing by Aether’s side, her red hair blistering in the wind, Khaos leaned into each gust drinking in the malevolent air with deep breaths. Eyes closed, fingers splayed at her hips, Khaos let the wind push at her body, blue buds of energy snapping from the tips of her fingers.

  “Khaos,” Aether closed his hand around the woman’s fingers, concealing the energy buds. “Remember my name is Bremen, and you are...”

  “Romney Wallendorf,” she opened her eyes, and turned toward Aether. “Steamracer extraordinaire and daughter of the great inventor, Luther Wallendorf.” Khaos grinned as strands of wayward hair tickled at her nose, catching momentarily between her lips. “I am prepared, my love.”

  “And now,” Aether pointed at a group of five men in black coats and grey caps striding toward them, “you will have the chance to prove it.”

  The group parted to reveal a slim, blonde woman in a black corseted jacket suit. Carrying a pair of high heeled shoes in her left hand, the woman strode across the cobbles of the dock in bare feet.

  “Herr Bremen,” Hannah von Ense signalled the men to stop several feet from Aether and Khaos. Padding softly across the cobbles, she stopped in front of Aether. Stepping closer to Aether, Khaos slipped her arm through his.

  “Yes?” Aether waited.

  “The boat is ready, Herr Bremen.” Hannah scowled at Khaos as the woman’s red hair swept across Aether’s cheeks. “You can board when you are ready.”

  “Good,” Aether turned to leave.

  “Is she going with you, Herr Bremen?” Hannah sidestepped, blocking Aether’s path.

  “Of course,” Aether frowned. “Why shouldn’t she?”

  “Forgive me,” Hannah gestured for Aether to follow her. Walking away from Khaos, she stopped at the dock’s edge.

  “What is it?”

  Hannah took a deep breath. “Herr Bremen, you are not yourself.” She nodded at Khaos. “Fräulein Wallendorf is a liability. You should leave her here.”

  “Leave her here? In London?”

  “Ja, Herr Bremen.” Hannah took another breath. “There is something more.” A sudden gust of wind whipped at her
short hair, pricking at the fine hairs on her skin.

  “Yes?” Aether shivered in the cold.

  “What about me, Herr Bremen?”

  “You?”

  “Am I not to accompany you to Germany?”

  “Why should you do that?”

  “Because,” Hannah leaned forward, “I am your assistant, Herr Bremen. You need me.” Aether shuddered under another gust of wind. He stared at Hannah, examining her face, her hair and her body until her cheeks blushed red and she lowered her eyes. “I can still be useful, Herr Bremen. We can still get the impediment machine.”

  “The impediment machine?” Aether thrust out his arm and gripped Hannah by the elbow. “What do you know of it?”

  “Herr Bremen?” Hannah lifted her arm, tried to pull it out of his grip.

  “What do you know?”

  “I know only what we discovered together. That it is powerful. That it brings forth demons...”

  “Demons?” Aether scoffed and let go of her arm.

  “Ja, Herr Bremen, demons.” Hannah rubbed her elbow and stared at Aether’s face. “I know they have it, Hanover and the Indian.”

  “And do you know where they are?”

  “North,” Hannah lifted her chin. “They are headed north. We have a man on the airship.” She frowned. “You know this, Herr Bremen. You planned this.”

  “Yes, of course,” Aether waved his hand. “Get on the boat. You are coming with us.” Clapping his hands together, he turned.

  “And what of Armbrüster, and the men?” Hannah called after him.

  “Them too,” Aether continued walking. “Bring whoever you think is important.”

  Hannah watched as Aether slipped into Khaos’ embrace as she walked forward to join him. Turning away, Hannah scanned the riverboat straining at the mooring lines securing it to the dock. She spotted the Master of the boat by the wheelhouse and beckoned him over.

  “Yes?” His black hair twisting in the wind, the man stuffed his hands inside the deep pockets of his oil-smeared moleskin trousers.

  “When do we leave?” Hannah pressed her toes over the edge of the dock and stared down at the man.