Chapter Seven
Asher cursed loudly. The ViperRay sat rock steady in his hands. Despite the rain and the darkness, despite the sixty-foot distance, he knew he could sever that rope with one blast of his ray gun. But he didn’t have a clear shot, not with Minerva dangling over the railing, trying to reach her father.
“Minerva! Stand aside!”
She didn’t hear him. Kicking and writhing at the end of the rope, Silas let out a bubbling gasp. Minerva lunged desperately and toppled over the railing. She didn’t make a sound as she plunged into the river. For a few seconds Asher’s brain went numb. Then cognition clicked back—he raised the ViperRay and squeezed the trigger. A shaft of blue light shot through the darkness and cut the rope cleanly. A heavy splash followed as Silas’s body hurtled into the water.
Asher flung off his greatcoat, sprinted across the road and jumped into the river without hesitation. With powerful strokes he plowed through the murkiness, emptying his mind of emotion, concentrating on the task at hand. In the choppy, malodorous waters, there was no sign of either Silas or Minerva. When he reached the spot where he thought the current would have swept them, he filled his lungs with air and plunged below the surface.
A Stygian darkness greeted him, more abominable than he could have imagined. He could see nothing. Kicking harder, he drove himself deeper, hoping against hope luck would be on his side this time. His hands groped something solid. He made out an ankle, and then a trousered leg. Hooking his arms around the sinking body, he barreled his way upwards. The body was waterlogged and growing heavier by the second, and his lungs were beginning to burn. He reached the surface gasping for air, the cold beginning to sap his energy. Dragging the man behind him, he wallowed to the riverbank and managed to haul them both out onto the sticky oozing mud.
He was about to dive back into the water when sounds reached him from farther downriver. Through the drizzling rain he saw a rowboat holding two men. The men were arguing, the sound of their voices carrying across the water. He knew instantly who they were. At the back of the boat a third figure suddenly stood up, slender and swaying. Minerva. His chest tightened up. He started to run along the riverbank toward her.
“Jump! Jump now!” he yelled, even though he didn’t think she could hear him.
She turned. The boat wobbled. One of the men grabbed an oar and swung it at her. It cracked across the back of her head, and she fell back into the boat.
No. He stumbled over the debris cluttering the riverbank. A piece of driftwood caught his shin. He sprawled in the mud just as the rowboat picked up speed and disappeared behind a curtain of rain.
No. He punched his fist into the dirt over and over, until the pain penetrated his boiling rage. Finally he picked himself up and returned to the man he’d pulled out.
He lay limp in the mud, his face swollen and bruised, but still recognizable as Silas Lambkin. Swearing loudly, Asher tore the rope from the old man’s neck.
“Silas! Wake up.” He tapped the puffy cheeks.
The man began to cough and splutter, and then he rolled over and retched out a large quantity of putrid river water. His head lolled to one side, revealing a purpling, bloody mass where his ear should have been. Asher gripped the man’s lapels tighter as his emotions roiled out of control once more.
The men who had mutilated this man had Minerva in their grasp. And they had the millennium machine. They had no need to keep her alive. So what would they do with her?
* * *
Minerva came to, wondering what hell she had been thrown into. The first thing she noticed was the darkness, followed closely by the fact she was bound and gagged, and then finally the stench hit her. The sour stew filled the atmosphere, almost as tangible as the dirt floor beneath her cheek. Lifting her head, her repugnance grew as she realized at least some of the odor was coming from her. Every scrap of her dress, every hair on her head, every inch of her skin, was soaked in the foulness of the river. Even the rag lashed over her mouth reeked.
Revolted, she struggled against the rope tying her hands behind her back, but the bonds held. Her throat muscles strained as she started to gag, but she managed to contain herself. If she vomited, she ran the risk of suffocating. She pulled herself into a sitting position, wincing as the lump at the back of her skull pulsated with pain.
She was in some kind of mean shack with crumbling walls and a makeshift roof that let in more rain than it kept out. A lone tallow candle cast a spluttering, stinking light over her cramped surroundings. Bundles of rags littered the dirt floor, and a heap of battered kitchen utensils filled one corner. A crooked three-legged stool was the only piece of furniture.
She was in the slum courts! The realization pierced her with biting panic. Just a couple of days ago she had flown over these slums in Asher’s dirigible. She’d peered down at these rotten shanties and pitied the people forced to live in such diseased squalor. And now she was a prisoner here, tied up like a hog for market.
Tamping down her dread, she shuffled over to the corner and began to feel about for some sort of knife or cutting implement. With her hands tied behind her back, she couldn’t see what she was scrabbling through, but eventually her fingers found the jagged edge of a broken glass bottle. She clutched the fragment tight and began to saw through her bonds. It was torturous going, made even more harrowing by the thought of the abductors returning before she could finish, but eventually the ropes fell from her stinging wrists, and she was able to rip the noisome gag from her mouth.
Gasping, she leaped to her feet and banged on the door. The hovel was decrepit, but the door was stout and firmly locked from the outside. She hammered the wooden boards and yelled until she was hoarse, but no one came. People lived cheek by jowl in these slums. Scores of neighbors would have heard her, but none dared come to her rescue.
Her legs gave way, and she slumped to the ground with a sudden moan. Her father was dead. She’d been captured by his murderers, and Asher had no idea where she was. No one was going to save her. She was on her own. The fear she’d been trying to keep at bay came surging up like acid in her throat. She crawled into the furthest corner and curled herself into a tight ball. After a few minutes she began to rock herself, blanking her mind to what lay ahead of her. Gradually, despite the cold and the chafing dampness of her dress, she found herself nodding off.
She lost track of time. She didn’t know how long she’d been dozing when footsteps tramped just outside the door. Her breathing stalled as she scrambled awake. Her captors were coming to get her. What would they do to her? Violate her? Cut her throat and throw her in the river?
A key rattled in the lock before the door creaked open. Several men crowded inside, bringing with them a large lantern. The brilliance of its light blinded her. She raised an arm, squinting as she tried to make out who the enemy was.
“Grimlock, is that you?” she called out, forcing her voice to remain steady despite her terror. “You’ve gone much too far this time. I demand you let me go at once.”
“Well, this is a problem, make no mistake,” the man behind the lantern said, disgust apparent in his voice. “And she’s not tied up like you said.”
“She’s a cunning bint.”A man spoke, the thug from the bridge. “I told Bates she were trouble, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“Bates is nowt but a half-wit.”
Minerva drew in a sharp breath. That vinegary voice was so familiar! “Mr. Monk? Surely it can’t be you…?”
The man lifted his lantern higher to get a better look at her. “Aye, Miss Lambkin. If only I could wish you a good evening.”
It was him. Dressed in his customary well-worn black greatcoat and top hat.
“Mr. Monk! Are you acquainted with these ruffians? Have you any idea what they’ve done tonight?” She stepped toward him, fuelled by her rising anger. “I demand you—”
He lifted his malacca walking stick and poked it against her chest, halting her progress. “Enough.”
Here in the slum courts, Mr. Monk looked in his element, his cadaverous features suited to the mean surroundings. She glanced at his cane and then at his hard eyes. A chilliness emanated from where the tip of his cane prodded her and spread through her body. “Oh, mercy, I never would have believed it. You kidnapped my father? You?”
“You think I’m not capable?” Mr. Monk sniffed, glowering at her.
“But—but I don’t understand. Why you? Are you in cahoots with Mr. Grimlock?”
“Grimlock! That idiot. Of course not.” Mr. Monk stumped his walking stick. “He has all the cunning of a bullock. I work by myself. The millennium machine is mine and mine alone.”
She shook her head in bewilderment. “You stole it just because my father is late on his payments? Isn’t that rather petty?”
“Petty! Your father pleads poor, but he’s a scheming scoundrel, and now I have his invention. The greatest invention of the century. That ain’t petty. Soon I’ll have a millennium machine powering every one of my mills. And when I’ve mechanized all my mills, I’ll be able to do away with half my workers too. That’ll be even more satisfying, laying off that louse-ridden lot. Nothing but trouble, these lazy ingrates.”