The Devil's Opera(117)

Schardius started to turn away, but stopped as his light flicked across something lying on the floor under the table. Stooping, he picked it—or rather, them—up. He stared at them, and smiled. These—now these he could take. He sniffed of them. There was a hint of the scent, but it wasn’t strong. He dared to open the scent bottle and pour a drop on each, then he closed it and returned it to its place.

Smiling a hot smile, Schardius turned to take his new trophies to safety.

* * *

Ciclope looked up as Pietro slipped through the door and closed it behind him.

“Did you get it?”

The Italian grinned and hefted his bag, which was much larger than it had been when he left, and judging from the effort he expended to lift it, weighed more as well.

Ciclope nodded toward the last hollowed out tree limb bomb case.

“Let’s get it done, then.”

“Si.”

Pietro set his bag on the table and pulled out a very finely woven cloth sack. It was the work of moments to fill up the bomb casing, pick up the waiting plug, rub a piece of wax around it, and press it into the hole, sealing the gunpowder inside the case. He rubbed the wax over the face of the bomb, then pressed a mixture of dirt and sawdust into the wax, hiding the circle where the plug met the wall of the bomb case.

The little thief picked up the completed bomb and set it with the other three of its mates, all masquerading as nothing more sinister than inert lengths of wood, suitable for someone’s fireplace or furnace. He dusted his hands, and said with satisfaction, “That’s that. We’re ready to go now.”

“Good,” Ciclope said. “Sooner is better. Tomorrow? Day after?”

Pietro thought for a moment, then nodded. “Si. I’ve been watching the night watchman, and the early morning crew. I know the routines pretty well. Give me one more night to follow them, and we can go the next day.”

“Good,” Ciclope repeated. He pointed to where the not-so-empty sack of gunpowder sat on the table. “Why did you get so much more than we needed?”

Pietro flashed a triumphant grin. “Because I got these, too.”

He reached into his carry sack and pulled out two pistols. And such pistols! Hockenjoss & Klott revolvers, they were. Five-shot beauties, Ciclope discovered when he took one in greedy hands.

“How…” he started, turning the pistol over and over in his hands.

“You visit a gun seller’s shop, you’d be surprised if there weren’t some guns there somewhere, wouldn’t you? And I picked up bullets and these percussion cap things, too.”

Pietro lifted more treasures from the carry sack.

Ciclope settled in for a long evening playing with his new toy.





Chapter 47

“Tell me again why we’re doing this now, instead of in the middle of the night?” Ciclope muttered.

Pietro turned around in the early predawn light with an air of patience.

“Because I don’t know how long it will take these to burn through and explode, so if we want to catch people, we need to load them in the fire about now. If we did it earlier, they might go off too early, which would wreck the machine but wouldn’t hurt anyone. Now come on, and for God’s sake, be quiet!”

The thief turned away and led Ciclope in a circuitous route through the darkest shadows, until they reached their destination: a wagon that had been jacked up to sit on columns of timber and brick, with its east end almost nosing the platform the steam crane was built on. It was the largest wagon either of them had ever seen, but then, considering what it carried when it rolled, it pretty well had to be.

The wagon bed had very high sides and a wooden roof. Up-timers who had seen it frequently remarked on how it resembled an old railroad car.

At the moment, a set of wooden steps led up to the door at the end of the wagon. Pietro handed his load to Ciclope, then paused, listening. After a moment, he slunk up the steps, then opened the door and whipped inside.

There were a couple of muted thumps, then Pietro appeared in the door and beckoned to Ciclope. He rushed up the steps as quickly as he could with the cumbersome loads.

There was barely room inside for the two of them, their loads, and the body on the floor. Ciclope unslung his load with a curse, but set it and the other one down with care nonetheless. Despite Pietro’s assurance that bumping or dropping the packages would have no effect on them, Ciclope was still a bit nervous about being so cavalier with the bombs.

“Who’s that?” he asked, pointing at the body.

“Nils,” Pietro said, taking a knife from his pocket and cutting the cords that bound the bombs into two packages. “He’s a Swede, one of the boiler tenders, usually works the early morning shift by himself getting the steam up to operating temperature.”