BreadCrumb Trail (The Yellow Hoods, #2): Steampunk meets Fairy Tale Page 8

  “Would you care for tea and biscuits today, Mister Hound?” asked Cleeves drily.

  “Yes, thank you, I would appreciate that,” replied the Hound.

  Cleeves gave a look that showed he didn’t care for the over-the-top manners. He moved out of the way to let the Hound enter. “Mister—”, he started to announce.

  “I am aware he’s here, Cleeves, thank you,” snapped Simon, shaking his head. He was halfway up a ladder attached to one of the many thirty-foot-high floor-to-ceiling bookcases. “Do you think me deaf? Really, Cleeves, sometimes I wonder why I keep you.”

  “Tea, sir?” asked Cleeves to Simon, ignoring the attack.

  “Of course, tea. What a silly question. Have I ever said no?” asked Simon. He returned to hunting for a particular book. “Come in, Hound. Don’t leave the door open like that. You might let a stray animal or commoner in here if you aren’t careful.”

  The Hound stepped in and tried to imagine how a commoner could get through the guards and checkpoints that led up to the study’s entrance, let alone the mini-castle that surrounded. Simon’s patron was as paranoid about security as Simon was.

  Looking at the ceiling, the Hound noticed skylights had been added, and the enormous chandelier removed.

  “You noticed the natural light,” said Simon, climbing down the ladder with two books under his left arm. He wore a beige shirt and maroon pants, which the Hound was surprised to see. Simon’s salt-and-pepper hair was short and brushed, and he remained as clean-shaven as ever.

  Simon offered a half-smile. “If you’re wondering about the modern clothing and my lack of scholarly robes, you can thank Richelle Pieman and her minions. They believe—and they aren’t wrong—that we need to project a more modern presence on all fronts. After seeing everyone else adopt it, I decided to give it a try.”

  The Hound, unsure what to say, offered, “It looks… comfortable.”

  Simon looked down at his pants and black boots. For a moment, Simon sounded like a regular, down-to-earth guy. “Remarkably, it is. Lighter too. I hated pantaloons, which is why, as much as possible, I wore the robes. These are, honestly, an improvement. I don’t like agreeing with Richelle, but on this front, I think she’s right.” Realizing he had said something that might make him seem weak, Simon corrected himself sharply, “I know she’s right. It’s obvious, and once I was brought into the discussion, I whole-heartedly agreed. However, I think everyone can agree that fashion is not on the same level of importance as my work.”

  The Hound nodded, not because he agreed, but because he feared the consequences of not doing so. St. Malo had been good to him since the beginning, but he’d heard stories about what happened to people who got on St. Malo’s bad side—supposedly an easy thing to do.

  “Come,” said Simon, walking through a labyrinth of recently rearranged eight-foot-high bookcases that divided up the otherwise enormous room. The Hound was sure St. Malo enjoyed being one of the few who knew the way through.

  A moment later, they emerged to a newly set-up area. There were two dark wooden worktables covered with neatly stacked papers and brass tubes. Nearby stood a pair of comfortable chairs with crimson and blue cushions, and side tables. The fireplace was about twenty feet back, near an ornate door the Hound hadn’t noticed before.

  Simon turned up one of the freestanding oil lamps near the seating area and motioned for the Hound to sit. As soon as they were seated, Cleeves arrived with the teacart, poured the tea, and then disappeared again.

  Tea in hand, Simon looked at the Hound, and waited. The Hound was familiar with Simon’s deliberately awkward pauses, which he used to create tension. It no longer bothered the Hound as much.

  “How are you, Hound?” asked Simon, seeming genuine.

  The Hound was taken aback. This was the first time Simon hadn’t addressed him as “dog” or else hurled some other similar insult to remind him of his place in Simon’s hierarchy.

  “I’m… well,” replied a suspicious Hound, picking up his own cup of tea.

  Simon took a slow sip of tea, cradling his cup. “I’m glad. Your recent successes have not gone unnoticed. Someone of importance wants to speak with you. You should feel honored.”

  “Thank you. If I may ask, who is it?”

  Simon’s grin was both sinister and joyful. “Have you ever heard of Lord Marcus Pieman? Perhaps you’ve heard of the society known as the Fare?” Simon’s grin widened.

  The Hound thought back to the painting. When he’d read the golden nameplate, he hadn’t recognized it, but now that Simon said it, he knew the name. There were stories and rumors about a group called the Fare, a group who had nearly taken control of every kingdom this side of the eastern mountains long ago. “The new Fare painting,” said the Hound.

  Simon nodded. “Let me guess—you have heard of it as the enemy of the Tub, as something that faded away a long, long time ago. All of which is true, save the faded away part. Lord Marcus Pieman rebuilt it. That painting you saw was commissioned shortly after I joined.”

  “Why does the leader of the Fare want to talk to me?” asked the Hound nervously.

  Simon put his cup gently down on the saucer sitting on the side table. He then leaned forward. “There is one thing you must understand,” he whispered, sharply and crisply, “whatever Marcus is going to talk to you about, you work for me, now and always. You are an extension of me. What you do, what you hear—all of it needs to get back to me, regardless of what you are told. Understand?”

  The Hound looked at his patron and nodded briefly.

  Simon smiled and leaned back. “Then, by all means, have the chat with Marcus. I’m sure he’ll be talking to you about fitting into our little secret society. Oh, and in case it isn’t obvious, mention it to anyone—”

  The Hound politely waved off Simon’s concern.

  “Good.” Just as Simon reached for his cup of tea, he stopped himself. “Oh—I have something to show you! Come,” said Simon joyfully. His ability to shift moods quickly was dizzying.

  Simon led the Hound to the ornate door by the fireplace. The door was twelve feet high and its mesmerizing carvings made it seem like it was a door within a door within a door. It opened to a bright room that had a large desk at the far end, a seating area by yet another fireplace, and a single workbench. Something was on the workbench.

  Simon walked over to the workbench and picked up two oversized, metallic, gear-covered gloves. The gloves were directly connected to two control boxes with dials, which in turn were connected to a large, strange-looking rectangular metal box. The metal box was smooth at the edges and sealed.

  “What is all of this?” asked the Hound.

  “These,” said Simon proudly, “are my shock-gloves—superior in every way to that toy you first brought. I took apart the shocking stick, and I’ll confess it was well made—for a toy. But it inspired me, and I came up with these.

  “You wear the gloves, attach the control boxes to your forearms, and wear the battery unit on your back. It’s heavy, but the power is immense. My initial experiments were exceptionally positive. I will admit the battery is based on one of Marcus’ designs. I am an electromechanical genius, while Lord Pieman understands chemistry like few others.”

  “I don’t see any cranks,” said the Hound, looking the invention over with fascination.

  “They don’t have any,” said Simon, almost insulted. “One cannot crank enough to produce the necessary power. That’s why I built a wagon, to allow for one to charge these anywhere. Unlike the sticks, which can only be used once per charge, these allow more uses, depending on how high you set the dials, right here on the control boxes.” Simon pointed out the dials.

  The Hound picked up and examined one of the strange metal gloves. He was amazed. “You made these, from that stick? Wow.” The gloves looked intimidating, and he liked that—a lot. “These are thick,” he remarked.

  Simon grinned. “Ah, yes. I wanted to ensure they wouldn’t electrocute the wearer, if used in bad
weather. And—”

  “Electro…?”

  “Electrocute means to shock,” Simon snapped, annoyed at having been interrupted. “I don’t want the wearer of the gloves to get shocked if a little water gets on them.” Simon resisted his urge to kick the Hound out and not waste any more time with him.

  “Oh, that’s smart,” said the Hound, apologetically.

  “The shocking stick seemed to have that principle, but I improved on it, significantly. Still, don’t let the wires get cut, or the tank punctured. That could result in… let’s say… significant unpleasantness.”

  “What? What are wires? What’s—” said the Hound, confused. He cringed at having made a second ignorant comment.

  Simon grumbled under his breath before sporting a fake smile and continuing. “Wires are these flexible rope-like things, here. They are what allow the energy from the tank to flow through to the control boxes, which then controls how much goes to the gloves.”

  “Oh, got it,” said the Hound, nodding. “This is amazing.”

  Simon relaxed, feeling the Hound was genuinely in awe of his genius. “Now, I need you to field test them. I need to know how they perform in real situations. Also, given how you’ve added some muscle in recent months, you should be able to handle the weight for several hours at a time.”

  The Hound was surprised by his patron’s remarks. Simon didn’t seem to miss the details of anything.

  “Cleeves has replacement clothes for you, in the newer style. I had your new long-coat made larger to accommodate all of this.”

  “Great,” said the Hound eagerly. “I’ll give these a try.”

  There was a knock at the door. It was Cleeves.

  “Send him in,” said Simon, anticipating why Cleeves had disturbed them. “It should be Marcus. I’ll leave the two of you alone. Remember what we discussed.”

  Simon stopped just before leaving and turned to the Hound again. “Oh—I presume you came all the way back here to make sure that Maxwell Watt was properly handed over and secured.”

  “Yes,” replied the Hound.

  “And he is secured, then?” asked Simon.

  The Hound put his arms behind his back, unconsciously standing at attention. “Yes. I saw to it myself. I made sure he is comfortable and his door properly locked. I checked the guard rotation. I also tested the door to his room, and the one at the base of the tower.”

  Simon thought through his mental checklist. “Excellent,” he said, turning to go. “I do so love a reliable pet.”

  “Shall I bring your tea in here?” asked Cleeves, who stood dutifully by the door.

  “Um,” said the Hound, looking about. “I have no idea what to do, Cleeves.”

  “That’s quite alright,” said a warm, charming voice. “You must be the Hound.” A white-haired man stepped into view. His clean-shaven face was evidently that of the man from the painting in the corridor, but older. He wore an eyepatch over his left eye.

  The man turned to Cleeves. “Arthur, would you be so kind as to bring us some fresh tea, and whatever fresh bits you can scrounge up?”

  Arthur Cleeves bowed and smiled. “For you, Lord Pieman, anything.”

  The man then turned to the Hound. “My name is Marcus Pieman. Please, call me Marcus. We have much to discuss and, unfortunately, very little time. I have a mission for you already.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Makings of a Hood

  The strong winter wind propelled the sail-carts through the Red Forest. Pierre held on tightly to the ropes tied to the sail-carts as they pulled him along on his skis.

  It was well past noon and they’d been searching for hours. They had found the beginning of a trail near a burned-down old building, but just beyond the protective circle of trees it had disappeared. They only had an idea of the direction someone had taken—and they hoped it was Mounira.

  “Okay—let’s split up and do a final look around. We won’t have enough light to get back if we go any further,” said Pierre, letting go of the ropes. He grabbed the poles off his back and skied around. The Yellow Hoods split off in different directions to have a look around.

  Ten minutes later, just as Pierre was about to call everyone in, Richy yelled, “Wait, I think I saw something!” He pulled down the telescoping mast and sail and hopped out of his sail-cart.

  Elly, Tee, and Pierre quickly made their way to Richy.

  Richy dashed through the knee-high snow to a little stone alcove under a great golden oak tree. It was nearly perfectly hidden under the tree’s enormous, powerful roots. A last, desperate flicker of something had caught Richy’s eagle eyes.

  “That’s the biggest golden oak I’ve ever seen,” said Pierre, marveling at it as he skied over.

  “How did you see that, Richy? It took me a few seconds looking straight at it to see the hiding spot underneath,” said Tee, climbing out of her sail-cart.

  Richy was too focused on getting to the alcove to hear her.

  Pierre planted his poles and removed his skis. “How did she manage to find this?” he said to himself. “This has to be hundreds of yards from the burned building. Unbelievable.”

  “I hope it’s her,” said Elly.

  Pierre nodded, realizing he was jumping to conclusions.

  Richy climbed into the small alcove and saw a kid, all curled up. He took his mitts off and placed his hand over the remains of a fire. “It’s still warm!”

  “Give me some room,” said Pierre. Richy climbed out and Pierre got his upper body into it. “This is a small space indeed.” He pulled off his mitts, rubbed his hands together to warm them up a bit, and then placed them on the girl’s neck.

  “I can feel her soul moving in there, but slowly,” he said as he felt the slow thump, thump, thump of her blood pumping. “Tee, get the fresh blankets ready for bundling her up. Elly, get the sheep bladders. Richy, get the sled ready… I still can’t believe she found this special place,” said Pierre.

  “Blankets are ready!” said Elly, from behind him.

  “The water bladders are still very warm,” said Tee.

  “That grandfather of yours is amazing, coming up with a way to keep them warm this long. I was certain you were going to tell me they were ice cold,” said Pierre, while trying to figure out how to pick up the girl. “I think this is the right girl. She’s got that southerner’s skin color and looks young enough.”

  Elly let out a sigh of relief.

  “What’s special about here, by the way?” asked Richy.

  “There are a handful of places like these in these forests. Legends have it that people, long ago, planted the first golden oaks on huge rocks like this so that in a blizzard, they would be able to find shelter under them—just like this girl did. There’s always some dry brush in its nooks and crannies. I can’t imagine how she found it,” said Pierre as he slowly removed Mounira from the alcove, trying to keep the once-tied blanket around her. Slipping for a moment, Pierre corrected his balance, but the blanket fell open.

  “Where’s her right arm?!” Richy shrieked.

  “Wow—she doesn’t have one,” said Elly, astonished.

  “Look at her feet,” said Tee, pointing at Mounira’s red and blackened skin.

  Pierre examined her feet. “She burned them… but how? Why would it have been so bad? Surely she would have felt the pain and done something,” said Pierre as he motioned for Tee and Elly to lay the blankets on the stretcher.

  They quickly and quietly made sure Mounira was bundled up and tied properly to the sled, which they attached to one of the sail-carts.

  Tee climbed into the alcove and looked at the smoldering remains of a fire. “I found some flint. There’s got to be some steel around here.” Tee carefully searched through the leaves and twigs in the far corner. “Found it!”

  Elly walked over. “So, wait… she made a fire with one arm, and her feet?”

  “We’ve got to go,” said Pierre. “The sheep bladders aren’t going to keep her warm forever. We have to get mo
ving.”

  “A fire with her feet and one arm,” said Richy, trying to imagine how Mounira had created the fire as he climbed into his sail-cart.

  “That would have deserved a La la,” said Elly, thinking of Tee’s trademark victory sound that she’d seemed to have outgrown.

  “You got that right,” said Tee, pulling up her mast and setting sail. “Mounira’s got some Yellow Hood in her.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Difficult Decisions

  Nikolas had returned to the café after having got the search party together. He’d had to bang on the door to be let in, and wasn’t sure why Jerome had a strange look of relief when he saw Nikolas again.

  He knew the best thing he could do at this point was make preparations for when the search party returned with Mounira. He quickly convinced Anna and Alman to come with him to his town home, a couple of blocks away.

  Nikolas had had the town home built nearly twenty years ago. It was a beautiful, simple two-story place where Isabella and Nikolas would stay in Mineau now and then, as a mini vacation away from the kids. Isabella loved the shopping and bistros in Mineau, and he loved the bookstores and random merchants who would come by. He occasionally made the second home available to the Tub for whatever needs they had.

  Finally, there was a knock at the door, and Nikolas answered it. Alman sprang up to see Pierre standing there, carrying a huge bundle in his hands.

  “We need to get her into some dry clothes, and get hot water for the sheep bladders!” said Pierre. “I don’t know how she’s doing, but I know it’s not good.”

  “I’ll take care of boiling some water,” said Anna.

  Nikolas led the way to the bedrooms upstairs.

  Alman waited for the Yellow Hoods to step in and remove their boots and coats before approaching. “I want to thank you, from the bottom of my heart. You have—”

  “Thank you, but go,” Elly interrupted. “We know where you need to be.” Tee and Richy nodded in agreement.