Arcadia Snips and the Steamwork Consortium Part 5

William nearly became a statue; only his eyebrow moved, twitching in a steady rhythm. "No. Of course not. Not at all," he said, his voice sliced open and drained of its strength.

"Because I would hope that you, of all people, would know the disastrous consequences inherent in practicing mad mathematics, Mr. Daffodil. After all, it is only a small step from mad maths to mad science."

William cleared his throat. "With your indulgence, sir, we must first understand the enemy if we are to defeat him."

Mr. Eddington sighed. "How does your work on the engine go?"

"Very well," William said. "We're nearly complete. We just need the data from the banks and we'll be ready to make a test run of it."

"Mr. Tweedle is seeing to it that it is shipped here tonight across the pipes," Mr. Eddington said. "In the meanwhile, Mr. Daffodil, please return to your work. And see to it that this-" he pointed at the wall of equations. "-is erased immediately."

William's left eyebrow twitched yet again. Regardless, he obediently nodded. Mr. Eddington turned and headed back to his office.

Shortly after the administrator had left, William fetched a damp rag with which to obliterate his work. But as he lifted it up to his equations, the mathematician paused-he was struck by the sudden silence. The constant chatter outside was absent; the steady hum of the calculation engine next door had inexplicably stopped.

William pinched his eyebrows together and sat the rag down, poking his head out of the workshop.

No one was present. William frowned, walking out.

"Um. Hullo?"

His voice echoed through the lobby.

"That is odd," he said, and then he noticed the clock mounted above the lobby's exit.

It seemed to be broken. The second hand struggled valiantly to usher in the next moment, but could not get past the three. Instead, it would tremble with effort before snapping back to the point where it had rested an instant prior.

William watched, perplexed, as the hand fought to move forward. It gave another spasm, and then sprang a second backwards.

"Mr. Daffodil?"

William nearly jumped out of his clothes. At once, the world was precisely as it should be; he was swimming in noise, surrounded by researchers going about their daily business. The engine rumbled beneath his feet, and one of his fellow engineers stood beside him. The clock's second hand was ticking merrily along, having long left the three behind.

"Is something wrong, Mr. Daffodil?"

Fearing he might be going mad, William shook his head.

"No. Not at all. Nothing is wrong. Everything is perfectly rational and fine," he said, and then he marched right back into his office and locked the door.

Mr. Tweedle was waiting for Eddington in the Steamwork administrator's office.

"This is a disaster," Mr. Tweedle said, pacing back and forth over the expensive rug. "A catastrophe! He'll discover what we're up to. And then we'll go to prison!"

"We're not going to prison," Mr. Eddington said.

"I hope that they give me a cell with a nice view," Mr. Tweedle said, worrying away at the corners of his boring hat.

"Perhaps with a tree. Do you think they have trees in prison? I hope they have trees."

"Be quiet," Mr. Eddington snapped. "No one is going to prison."

Mr. Tweedle grew quiet, watching Mr. Eddington with a look of desperation. The administrator sighed and reached into the bottom of his desk for a flask of spirits.

"Let us a.s.sume that, for the sake of argument, that you and I are engaged in some... 'questionable' activity. Merely for the sake of argument," Mr. Eddington continued, pouring out shots for Mr. Tweedle and himself. "Whatever that activity might be, it is not the target of the Count's investigation."

Mr. Tweedle was so eager to drench his worries in alcohol that he slopped the liquor over the front of his coat. It was not long before he was thrusting the gla.s.s out for a second helping. "But they'll blunder upon it, no doubt. You would have to be incompetent not to see what it is we're up to."

Mr. Eddington supplied the refill with a smile. "Yes," he said. "You would, wouldn't you?"

"Who on earth would be-"

"Are you familiar with a detective by the name of Mr. Watts, Mr. Tweedle?"

Mr. Tweedle was given a start. "Jerome Watts? The mad inspector? The one with the pigeons?"

"I think he would make an exceptional investigator for this case, don't you?"

Realization hit Mr. Tweedle with a start. "I see! But still, it seems all so delicate, Mr. Eddington. I'm just worried-"

"Leave the worrying to me, Mr. Tweedle," Mr. Eddington said, suppressing the desire to roll his eyes. "So long as you abide by my instructions, everything shall go according to plan."

"But what of that 'government consultant' fellow? That sounds a bit troubling, doesn't it?" He almost sounded hopeful; as if the thought of having it all found out brought the man some degree of comfort.

"Oh, yes, that," Mr. Eddington said, chuckling derisively. "I have every bit of confidence that the matter of this consultant will be solved swiftly and decisively."

The government bureaucrat's waiting room had long since pa.s.sed ostentatious, strolled beyond elegant, and waded through a pile of money back to ostentatious again. Long rows of books with impressive t.i.tles threatened to crush the many shelves beneath their weight. The upper walls were choked beneath framed diplomas and awards all clambering over one another to heap countless honorifics upon their owner, while the lower walls were crowded with extravagant panel moldings of flora and fauna. The area was illuminated by a gilt-covered gasolier and several windows lurking high out of reach, as if placed in a direct attempt to prevent the room's occupants from escaping.

Present were four figures of note: Kronan the Butcher; a solid block of muscle wrapped in a cheap suit and topped off with a battered cap. He was known both for his affinity for violence and his artistic sensitivity; his most recent work had received rave reviews. Ent.i.tled 'Corpse Poetry', it was a method of expressive corpse arrangement, allowing the artist to convey a variety of emotions and concepts. When he wrote a rather conservative piece using several critics who had treated his previous work harshly, the art community as a whole suddenly discovered a newfound respect for his unappreciated genius. He sat upon a comfortable armchair, remaining perfectly still.

Taz the Burr; a contortionist with a constant smile fixed to his face and an affinity for aggressive property redistribution. He had reportedly broke into the Royal Treasury with nothing more than a rusty nail and his cheerful grin, then slipped on out the front door-tipping the guard on his way. He sat upon a lovely side chair, remaining perfectly still.

Durden the Knife; a mysterious foreigner who wore a hooded robe that sharply contradicted the stuffy coats and jackets of his contemporaries. He preferred the pearl-lined hilts of his razor-edged scimitars to the cool grip of a pistol; according to the rumors, he had once dodged a bullet. He sat in an open cot, remaining perfectly still.

And finally, the man in black. He possessed all the lethargic grace of a long-toothed alley cat, with the scars to match-and his head was shaved as smooth as gla.s.s. He wore a pitch-black long coat and stood at the back of the room, rolling a cigarette. His nose was made of bronze and hooked like a vulture's, attached to his face by glue and several crude looking bolts.

The door opened. A slender gentleman with over-sized spectacles stepped in, reading off a clipboard. "Now, I believe we're ready to discuss the matter of your payment, gentlemen-"

Something was wrong. He leaned forward, inspecting the scene. There was far too much perfect stillness. Reaching for the nearby gasolier valve, he turned it up and bathed the room in an orange glow.

Kronan the Butcher was currently slouched back over his chair, a dozen knives emerging from his ribcage like the back ends of tacks stuck through a notice. His jaw had dropped, his eyes wide and glazed.

Taz the Burr was still smiling, but his head was all that was left of him. He had been smoothly decapitated and pinned to the chair with a knife through his hair; there was no sign of the body.

Durden the Knife had been shot in the mouth; fresh trails of smoke trailed up from his nostrils. Someone had taken the additional liberty of breaking his scimitars and forcibly jamming the hilts down his smoldering throat.

"Excuse me," the official began, stifling an uncomfortable cough. "Might I ask what has transpired here?"

"Cancer," said the man in black.

"Cancer?" This took the official by surprise.

"It's a silent killer."

"You are telling me that your fellow a.s.sa.s.sins died from cancer?"

"Can't beat cancer, can you?"

"Can you explain, then, why they look as if they have been victims of violence? I do believe that one's body is, in fact, missing."

The man with the metal nose finished rolling his cigarette and lit it with a flick of flint and steel. The tip unraveled into threads of fragrant smoke. "Very dire cancer."

Absolute silence.

"Huh. I suppose that means there's only the matter of your payment, then."

"Funny thing. They left explicit instructions for their share to be given to me in the unlikely event of their deaths," the man announced. He drew a rolled up contract out of his coat and tossed it the official's way.

The official snagged the doc.u.ment and unrolled it, looking it over critically. "All three of them, while dying-"

"From cancer," the man in black reminded him.

"-found the time to write out and sign a doc.u.ment bequeathing their portion of the reward to you."

"Heroes to the last." He drew a deep and hungry breath, soaking his lungs in the smoke's bitter tang. "Examples to us all."

"I see. Well, then."

"Well?"

The official smiled meekly. "Everything looks to be in order. This way, please."

"I must admit. I've never met an a.s.sa.s.sin as-as-"

"Pay me."

"As direct about things," Bartleby confessed.

The bureaucrat's office was a typhoon of paperwork, books, gifts, trophies, and other meaningless detritus that had apparently gathered around him not through any conscious work but merely by his sheer magnetism when it came to useless junk. The a.s.sa.s.sin was sure that if he spent hours digging through the piles of self-important knick-knacks that surrounded him, he'd never find so much as a functional bottle-opener.

The a.s.sa.s.sin relished his cigarette like others might enjoy a fine meal, allowing the smoke to languish across his tongue and throat. When he spoke, he was sluggish and calm, but beneath every drugged syllable lay the threat of cold steel.

"Speaking of direct. Pay me."

"Oh, yes. Your payment. My employee told me you'll be accepting the shares of your companions. They died? Very tragic."

"I'll send flowers. Pay me."

"Of course, of course." Bartleby swelled up to his feet, wobbling about. The man wasn't just overweight. He had long flown past the boundaries of polite obesity on a rocket-propelled sled, making a rude gesture on the way. The man was an amorphous blob. He waddled to the far side of the room, shoving aside a few trophies to get at the safe. "I must admit, it's been an exceptional thrill to have a legend working for me."

The man in black amused himself by imagining how Bartleby would look as he tumbled out of his own office window.

"Oh? You've heard of me?"

"Of course I've heard of you! Who hasn't? You're a downright legend around these parts, sir!"

"Good to know."

"In fact," Bartleby continued, fiddling with the safe's lock.

"I have all your books. I must say, they're quite good. Do you write them yourself, or does someone else write them for you?"

"Books?" The man's eye twitched. His mouth began to spasm. Oh, G.o.d. Please, no, he thought to himself. Please make him shut up. Make him shut up right now.

"Yes. I've read them all. I'm quite the fan. Although I always I thought you'd be taller, in all honesty..."

The a.s.sa.s.sin turned around in his chair, staring at Bartleby's back. If the city bureaucrat could have seen him, he would have recognized a look of such pure murderous sociopathy that it might have killed him on the spot.

The safe clicked open. Bartleby reached inside, fishing out a bundle of cash. "Well, anyway. Truly, it's been an honor to have the legendary Von Grimskull working for m-"

One moment later, people on the street looked up in surprise as a window on the top floor exploded. A screaming fat man soon emerged, flailing his arms for a good second before slamming into the ground with a sound best described as 'incredibly moist'.

Bristling with weapons, the guards kicked down the door and stepped into the room.

The a.s.sa.s.sin makes it clear he will have no more of this 'Von Grimskull' guff.

Present were three details of note: Bartleby, their employer, was missing.

The very large window behind Bartleby's desk was currently broken.

In Bartleby's place was a very angry man. An angry man currently holding a pair of fully loaded pistols and wearing a sinister bronze nose.

"Cancer," the a.s.sa.s.sin croaked.

"Holy mother of pearl," one of the guards yelped. "Do you know who that is?!"

"Eh?"

"That's Von Grimskull!"

The a.s.sa.s.sin sighed, drawing the hammers back with a swipe of his thumbs.