CHAPTER 2: IN WHICH TWENTY YEARS HAVE SINCE PASSED, WE DISCOVER MUCH CLAMOR IS AFOOT, AND OUR TITULAR PROTAGONIST IS AT LAST INTRODUCED

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A river of gold flowed through a steam-powered city.

It was carried upon the greased rails of human ingenuity, ferried from one civilization to the next along a massive trumbling track that speared its way through air and soil. Every day, its trains pumped prosperity and corruption in equal parts through the city's brass-lined veins. And every day, its trains ran on time.

The city of Aberwick was a topographical nightmare wrested from the laudanum-fueled fever dreams of half-mad cartographers. It was cradled in a yawning canyon of volcanic rock, with communities swelling up into massive heaps of brick and timber; the trains flowed aside, above, and even through these mounds.

If the train rails were Aberwick's veins, then under Aberwick was its steam-powered heart. Beneath the crusty topsoil and the jigsaw puzzle of slums was a maze of tunnels and caverns where ancient boilers harvested the burning expulsions of geothermal vents, providing heat and power to the urban sprawl above. A tangle of pipes tied in mad knots of right and wrong angles slurped the volcanic gas like a thousand straws, drawing it up to the slums and the extravagant villas that lay high above. But despite all of this, it was the trains that had become the symbol of Aberwick: ceaseless, endless, and punctual.

Count Orwick watched the city through his office window as the trains outside plunged into tunnels and emerged across bridges, forming a tangled knot complex enough to give even Alexander's sword pause. Powerful locomotives weaved their way through the web, their conductors following Orwick's calculated directions—directions so divorced from common sense that calamity seemed inevitable. Yet like a magician poring over archaic alchemical formulae, he snatched success from the jaws of failure again and again.

His office was extravagant yet tasteful. Sets of exquisitely crafted maple chairs inlaid with floral patterns and padded with matching damask cushions gathered around his marble-topped desk. Ornate brass fixtures capped with glass spheres provided light along the walls, with coils of gas burning brilliantly within.

The elegance was lost upon Mr. Eddington as he marched in; for him, it was all the useless trimmings of a noble busy-body.

The rail-thin administrator of the Steamwork was the sort of man whose face had been designed explicitly for the purpose of expressing outrage. There was never a moment when he lacked either a cause for indignation or the indiscretion necessary to express it.

He was accompanied by a gentleman who clutched a pile of documents to his chest as if it were a crucifix and he had just blundered into a den of nosferatu after wading through a pool of blood mixed with steak sauce. Mr. Tweedle was the chief administrator of all six of Aberwick's banks, and yet he was so boring in appearance that we shall waste no more words to describe him, save to note that he sometimes wore a very uninteresting hat.

"Count Orwick!" Mr. Eddington cried, the force of his voice causing Mr. Tweedle to cower. "I demand an explanation!"

Count Orwick tore himself away from the window with great reluctance. He observed the gentlemen as an alley cat might observe a pair of exotic birds kept safe in a cage; interesting, but ultimately inconsequential.

"For what do you demand an explanation?" Count Orwick asked.

"For this!" Mr. Eddington slapped the newspaper down onto the desk.

"That," Orwick said, "is a newspaper. I believe it may, on occasion, contain news."

"Sometimes crossword puzzles," Mr. Tweedle said, before sinking under Mr. Eddington's withering glare.

"Not the paper, Count Orwick. The article on the front page." Mr. Eddington's finger stabbed at the title. It read: STEAMWORK UNDER INVESTIGATION.

"Oh, that," Orwick said. "It should be of little concern to such law-abiding men as yourselves."

"My associates and I brought our business to this fair city under the assurances of non-interference at the hands of the government."

"And so you have received it. And so you will continue to receive it. Her Majesty has made clear her desire for your sovereignty over personal affairs," Count Orwick said.

"Then what is this talk of an investigation? Why were we not informed?"

"I planned on scheduling a meeting with you this afternoon to discuss the matter," Orwick said. "Her Majesty has requested your full compliance in a government investigation of your facilities. She is concerned about the recent rash of attacks against our banks, and what it might mean should your inventions at the Steamwork fall into the wrong hands."

"Our security is second-to-none," Mr. Eddington said. "I will not have your men interfering with my work, blundering about in my workshops and disturbing my machines. We can carry out our own investigation, thank you very much."

"And what have you unearthed concerning the recent demise of your research assistant, Mr. Copper?"

"A tragedy, to be certain, but a wholly inevitable one," Mr. Eddington said. "Mr. Copper's research was highly dangerous. He ignored safety protocols time and time again."

"Her Majesty has reason to believe it may be part of an anarchist plot," Orwick said. "She wishes for the case to be re-opened and investigated."

Mr. Eddington's scowl deepened. "I have no desire to see your 'agents' in my house of business, Orwick."

"Please, Mr. Eddington. Agents? In my employ?" Orwick brought a narrow hand to his chest, as if fending off violence. "I have no such thing. I am merely a humble instrument of the Queen's will."

"In that case," Mr. Eddington said, stepping backward and folding his arms over his chest. "I demand the investigation be carried out by a third party, unrelated to you or your government."

"Such a strange request," Orwick said. "Do you think us as little more than a motley collection of spies and thieves?"

"I think that history speaks for itself, Count Orwick."

"Very well. Hire any investigative agency you would like, so long as it is clear that they are impartial to the matter. I only ask that a government consultant be allowed to join the investigation, to ensure that our concerns are addressed."

Mr. Eddington's eyes narrowed into a stare that could slit open stone. "One consultant," he said.

"Only one," Orwick agreed, and then he smiled. Both Eddington and Tweedle instinctively recoiled; Orwick's smile was a vicious thing, full of malice and sharp edges. Nary a friendly flat-topped tooth lay in sight.

~*~

Beneath Arcadia Snips' derby hat and short black curls was the face of a silver-fanged cherub—a mocha-toned angel with enough charm to sell a pack of matches to a man doused in lamp-oil. But whenever she grinned, the very tip of that silver fang would tuck over the edge of her bottom tooth. It gave her a savage, frightful look.

Snips squirmed in the grip of the prison's complimentary straitjacket and accompanying chains, left hanging by her feet from the musty cell's ceiling. The nearby locksmith rattled off items from his list, scoring checkmarks as he went.

"Straitjacket, check."

Beside the locksmith stood Morgrim Prison's warden. The man resembled an old goat with all the mental flexibility of a chalk brick. Recent months had taken their toll on him; his once proud uniform fit him like a glove fitted a foot, and his eyes had sunk into deep craters.

"You see, Miss Snips," the warden began, "I want you to be extra comfortable. I've realized why you keep escaping. It's because we just haven't taken that extra step for you. We haven't been giving you the special attention you deserve."

"Manacles, check. Padlock on manacles, check."

"Really, I feel this whole sordid affair has been my own fault. But don't you worry. We're going to take every step possible to make sure you are comfortable." The warden twitched. "In fact, once we're through, I'm sure you'll never want to leave Morgrim again."

"Suspension cords, check. Padlock on suspension cords, check."

"Twice now," and here the warden's voice trembled, much like the plucked note of a cello string wound a quarter of an inch too tight, "you have vanished from your cell without apparent explanation or effort. Twice now, you have soiled my reputation as a capable jailer. I will earn my reputation back, Miss Snips. There will not be a third occasion."

"Reinforced triple padlocked deadbolts on the door, check.

We're finished here, sir," the locksmith said.

Snips smiled.

"Oh, do you have something to say, Miss Snips? Perhaps some sort of amusing quip? A clever parting word?"

Rather than reply, Snips just kept on smiling.

"All for the better. Rest assured; there is nothing on the tip of your tongue that can change the fact that you will die here, alone and in the dark."

The warden spun about on the heel of his boot, stomping out of the room with the locksmith in tow. The door slammed shut, followed by the clamor of many, many locks snapping into place.

Once the sound of their footsteps put them at the far end of the hall, Snips stuck out her tongue.

On its tip was the warden's key.

Snips pulled the key back into her mouth and began to writhe with great violence, rocking from side to side. Every minute would end with a rattle of metal or cloth as she threw down yet another implement of bondage. After five minutes of this, she had shed her bindings much like a snake might shed its skin. She unlocked the chain that held her feet in the air and tumbled to the floor, now clad only in her prison arrows and beloved hat.

She didn't get far out of the cell before stepping out in front of someone.

"Now what do we 'ave here," asked the towering guard. He was swarthy and broad, with palms large enough to seize skulls and arms strong enough to crack them. When he spoke, it was with barking alacrity—as if he found the language somehow distasteful to his tongue, and was glad to have it off. "Still tryin' to drive the warden mad, eh?"

"Morning, Agrippa," Snips said, unflinching. "And, yeah.

You got a mind to try and stop me?"

Agrippa laughed; it was a short and violent noise that sounded like something he had caught from a fellow who had died of it. "Maybe," he said. "You think y'could take me?"

"Probably not," Snips admitted, meeting his smile with one of her own. "But I'd charge you an eyeball for the right." She wiggled her thumb.

For a moment, there was silence. Then Agrippa chuckled.

"Give me a strike to th'back of th'head," the guard said.

"Make it look good, eh?"

Snips searched the room until she found a crowbar. She advanced toward Agrippa, who obligingly turned his back.

"Some world, eh?" Agrippa said. "You can't even trust your own kin not to turn you in for a nickel."

"It's always been like that," Snips said. "Besides, the only two things I've ever trusted were myself and a sturdy crowbar. And I ain't too sure about that first thing."

"Well, I think—"

She brought the makeshift bludgeon down with a brutal blow.

~*~